


The Dust of Retreat

by Sceptic_Idiot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Rape, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, POV First Person, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sceptic_Idiot/pseuds/Sceptic_Idiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is a broken, apathetic shell of a man. Then in comes Harry Potter with a request he can't refuse, and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dust of Retreat

### Part I

 

If there's one thing that can be said for me, it's this - Draco Malfoy was never a wishful thinker.

I'm not the sort of person who believes in miracles. I assume a childhood of being pressed under the thumb of my fanatical father and adolescence of serving an even more insane - not to mention abusive - dark overlord can do that to you.

There are days when I still wake up screaming, the sheets tangled around my ankles. I'm sweaty, and I'm trying to get up and run from whatever's been chasing me.

It's not easy. My Dark Mark has faded, but it hasn't disappeared. Just like the past.

I still have scars which  _will_ never fade, no matter how much I wish they could. In the end, I reckon everyone took away their own fair share of scars from the War, no matter what side they fought on.

These scars are personal. They aren't for our War-time loyalties. They might be  _because_ of them, but not for them.

In the end, everyone pays penance. Everyone has to deal with them.

Alone.

It's funny, because when I imagined myself seven years down the line from Hogwarts, this wasn't what I had in mind. For one, I assumed my mother would still be alive.

She isn't.

There was some sort of fanatical group, about five years ago. It had been only two years since the end of the War and the downfall of the Dark Lord. The main player was dead, gone - and everything was fine and dandy about that. But what of his kiss-arse followers?

In the courtroom trials immediately after the War, all the remaining Death Eaters were rounded up and made to stand. Some were locked away within a day of proceedings. Too many heinous crimes to name. The reading of the offences took hours, for some. The reading of the sentence only a minute.

My father was one of those people.

Don't get me wrong. When I imagined my future after I knew the Dark Lord had been overthrown, it didn't include my father. I knew what was in store for him. And I welcomed it.

But he was the only one from the Malfoy clan sentenced to the Kiss. Or even sentenced at all, it may seem. Mother and I were largely rescued from any sort of punishment. A year of probation at Malfoy Manor hardly counts as much after our scale of inclusion in the War.

This was largely because of Harry Potter.

He spoke up in my mother's - and my own - defence at the trial. And who are the Wizengamot to lock up a pair that the Saviour of the fucking Wizarding World deems innocent?

Sometimes I wish they had.

Maybe then I could wipe away this stench of guilt from my skin.

But of course, not everyone was happy with the outcome. Some of the public's views were largely resolute on the fact that Mother and I were equally to blame and should get at least 5 years in Azkaban each, if not more. We weren't the only families garnering this sort of response. The Goyles were in a similar position. So were the Notts and the Parkinsons.

They rose in the first year after our probation ended. They called themselves the Hand of Justice - though who their actions were serving is yet to be seen. That isn't to say they didn't have people who sympathized with their goal very, shall we say,  _vocally._

They took it upon themselves to rid the wizarding society of all the remaining Death Eater clans, regardless of whether the kin were involved or not involved, guilty or not guilty.

And they came after Mother first.

They weren't any better than the force they were (so-called) fighting against. They ambushed her in Knockturn Alley. And it makes me angry, because I'd  _told_ Mother not to venture too far out. The attacks had increased, and there's only so much you can expect the Ministry to do when a third of them support the actions.

They tried to rape her before putting their wands to her throat. The final humiliation before death.

Narcissa Malfoy had too much pride for that. Her wand was out and pointed towards her own temple before they could even hear the two words she uttered that would end her life.

I wish I could say I knew when my mother snubbed out her own life. I wish I could claim that some sort of magical wave washed over me, indicating that the one woman that truly cared for me all through my pathetic existence was not breathing anymore.

The sad fact of the matter is that the exact second my mother had died, I was in the lavatory in of a dingy bar in the underbelly of Marseille, getting my brains sucked out through my cock by a Frenchman whose name I still don't know.

And just like that, Mother was dead.

Her funeral was the first time I cried over any one of my family. And it will be the last.

Another thing I didn't see coming was how numb serving under the Dark Lord would make me. While under him, I often thought the things I'd seen would guarantee me a lifetime at the Mental Maladies ward at St. Mungo's if I ever got out of this alive. But now I just take it in my stride.

You get used to being tortured by the one you call your Master just because he  _feels like it._  But there's always a reason hidden behind that. I know because I've had first-hand experience.

This, once again, was largely because of Harry Potter.

He was the star of my first wet dream. You'd imagine the first time a bloke dreams about sexually stimulating situations would be much before the age of seventeen. Unfortunately for me, I didn't have the leisure or the peace of mind for such. My subconscious never had the comfort of veering towards carnal pleasures in my sleep because the situation I'd gotten myself in was, quite frankly, shite.

The first time I dreamt about Harry Potter was the night after when his swollen face was shoved into my own at my house, people around me demanding for me to confirm his identity. And I didn't.

But I dreamt about him that night.

_He is kneeling in front of me, the red head of my cock grasped firmly between his lips. He is smirking at me, that bastard of a tease. My hands are grasping the wood of one of the desks in the Charms classroom tightly behind me. My knuckles are white._

_He hums around the tip of my shaft, and it's too much for me to take. I can't stop myself from thrusting blindly into his mouth, begging him with my body to enclose more of me in that slick, hot chamber of his that feels so fucking good. But he merely pulls away as much as I thrust, refusing to take in more than the glistening head of my cock._

_I realize the most undignified sounds are emerging from my dry mouth, but I can't help them. I do a quick circuit of my lips with my tongue, wetting them. Potter's eyes flick upwards and follow the path hungrily. His eyes then flick to mine and stay there._

_His glasses lie forgotten in a corner. Without them to dull his gaze, the heat of his vision rips through me unadulterated. Usually, his emerald eyes are molten metal and green fire both, swirling together._

_Now, however, they've been reduced to green rims around black pools of lust._

_His tongue goes round and round the tip of my erection, dipping into the slit and licking away my bitter pre-cum. My knees shudder and I moan out loud, one of my hands fastening in his messy black locks to jam him there._

_He makes a tutting sound around my cock and holds my hips firmly in place with one hand. The other extends a finger along the underside of my shaft and follows a ridge there. I shudder again, desperate for him to just allow me to come._

_So close, yet so far. This is the best kind of torture I've had to endure._

_Suddenly, he withdraws. His hands still hold my bare hips firmly in place, both of them placed there now. He looks up at me and his eyes turn earnest, sincere._

_"You have a choice to make, Draco. You can't keep living like this."_

_What the fuck does he mean? I don't care about any fucking choices. I just want his mouth around my cock again._

_But he's fading. He's becoming translucent, and suddenly I'm falling into blackness._

I remember waking up that morning with the sheets around me sticky and in a mess. The sensations of the dream were still swimming in my head, and it felt so many fucking times better than any amount of wanks I may have subjected myself to in the shower. If I had had any doubts about how bent I was before that, they were all washed away that night.

That was also the day the Dark Lord used Legilimency on me for the first time. He ridiculed me. And tortured me under the Cruciatus Curse in phases for the better part of the day.

By the time I was Levitated back to my room, I was unconscious with pain.

Now, the only times I allow myself to be frightened by the horrors of my past are in my dreams, where I have no control over what I see. The rest of my life passes in a blur of numb. I don't want to feel. It's too much work.

I also didn't see myself working at the Ministry as a Goblin liason. Admittedly, I took the job because there had been no other choices at the time. I couldn't keep wallowing in sorrow over my mother's death. The opportunity came up at a convenient time. And surprisingly enough, the Ministry was perfectly fine with me working there.

I can't think of changing tracks now. I'm settled as I am.

But I have no friends anymore. Not really. Pansy's moved to Bulgaria after she hooked up with that Quidditch star Krum. She doesn't want to return to England. I don't think there's any reason for her to.

Greg's parents were killed by the Hand of Justice. Last I heard of him, he was fucking Bulstrode and they'd eloped.

I still see Blaise and Theo around sometimes. Theo's working as an Unspeakable, so his personal affiliations are limited. Blaise owns his own brothel in Germany. We don't see each other that much, though. Maybe once in two months for a drink.

No, when I think back, this isn't what I'd imagined my life would be like. I never was a wishful thinker, but I'd like to think I still had a bit of that naïve teenage optimism. That's gone too, now.

_Good day, pleased to introduce to you Draco Malfoy, 24, friendless, hollow, broken shell of a man. How do you do?_

At least now I can consider this my atonement for my sins. I'm far more broken than anything they could've expected after a couple of years at Azkaban.

But I still can't wash away that stench of guilt from my skin.

I scrub at it with my nails in the shower sometimes, when the smell gets too bad. I feel it enveloping me, choking me, squeezing my soul. I still don't know what it is that I feel guilty for, all I know is that I do. I'm choking on the dust of my retreat.

I break blood more often than not. And afterwards, when I lie in my huge bed in that desolate Manor, and I stare up at the ceiling, still sopping wet and bleeding over my sheets, I'd deny even under Veritaserum the tears that make their way silently down the sides of my face, over my temple and into my hair.

 

### Part II

 

It's a Friday night, and I take a seat in a deserted booth at the Spitting Horntail. This is one pub in Diagon Alley that has the advantage of not being a regular haunt for Ministry officials. I'm never in the mood for rubbing shoulders with those self-righteous bastards, and the only time I voluntarily accompany them is on periodic department jaunts down to the Leaky.

On second thought, I wouldn't even call that voluntary. It's a formality, an appearance that must be kept up for the sake of retaining your job. But I mostly keep to myself, not talking much, and after the first few times the others have learnt to let the silent, brooding, intimidating Malfoy heir be.

The Spitting Horntail, however, does not attract the same sort of crowd. It's not popular, but well-kept enough that I can enjoy a solitary drink every now and then without having to worry too much about the hygiene of the seat I'm sitting in.

Another plus point is that the patrons of this bar more often than not tend to be bent blokes who're looking for a quick shag with no strings attached. Works for me, since I happen to be one of those patrons.

I pull my bottle of Guinness towards me and take a deep swig. The beer tastes bitter in my throat, and I love it. I Apparated outside here immediately after I was done for the day; it hadn't been as taxing a one as usual. So I'm enjoying the relatively light drink over the strong whiskey I usually favour.

As is the norm for me, I've taken a seat which allows me to see everyone and everything in the pub without having a pair of eager eyes attached to my own back. I scan the crowd quickly. I'm in the mood for a quick round of buggering, and I narrow down a couple of attractive and possibly interested candidates.

There's a man seated on a barstool watching me with interest. He has dark brown hair, almost bordering on black and his eyes shine a bright amber. He's fingering the stem of his wine glass with slender fingers in a manner so casually flirtatious it might've been missed by someone who wasn't looking for it. I'm still in my pale grey work robes, but he's dressed in a blue and green checked button down with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A pair of well-fitting jeans adorns his arse, riding low on his hips, slung up by a simple leather belt.

Stylish, but accommodating. Perfect. His eyes meet mine for a moment, and I know we both have the same thing on our agenda. I look away for a moment, readying myself to make a move.

That's when I'm assaulted by a duo of ginger and black hair walking through the door.

My seductive smile falters. Oh, fuck no. Please, Holy Mother of Merlin,  _fuck_ no. Not here.

They're talking rapidly under their breath, and from the looks of it, arguing. I sink back into my seat, trying to use my bottle to hide my face, desperate for them not to notice me.

The Wizards of Old have a bad sense of humour from wherever they're looking down on me right now, because despite my silent and fervent requests, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley take a seat in the booth directly opposite me.

Strangely, however, they still haven't noticed me, so involved are they in whatever it is they're bickering about it. It's times like these I wish I'd used a Glamour to disguise my trademark platinum blonde locks. Not that I'd ever do it, though, because it's usually one of the key players in my Seduction of Consenting Shags.

But no, that hasn't given me away. Yet. They only have to look up to notice me, however, and I'm thinking of deserting my seat - however sacrilegious that may be - and looking for another one out of their line of sight.

It's not like I haven't seen Potter and the Weasel around after school. They both hold offices of power down in the Auror department. Potter's the youngest Head Auror there's been since the time of Chriswithe Puddlefoot, and Weasley's hanging around on his coattails, as usual. I snort silently. Some things never change.

We've crossed paths in the corridors. But no words have ever been exchanged. Potter always nods at me stiffly. My mood at that particular time dictates whether I return his gesture or not. Weasley and I, however, refuse to acknowledge the other's existence.

But this is the last place I want to see or be seen by them. I can't even pick up a quick fuck in peace.

I can hear snippets of their conversation, even through the din of laughter and talking in the pub. I wonder why that is. I think, over the years gone by, my ears have attuned themselves to picking out Potter's voice with astounding clarity in a crowd.

"-is not right, you owe it to her-"

"-fuck's sake, I know, Ron, but there's nothing to doubt-"

"-expect me to believe that after the last couple of weeks? Just admit it Harry, you know-"

"-can't believe you even talked me into coming here, nothing's changed-"

"-more than enough proof it has, even Hermione agrees with me! I'm trying to help here, mate-"

"- _Hermione_ agrees? Oh, for the love of Merlin, you lot are trying to conspire against me!"

"-want to be sure before you make a decision? This is a matter of your entire life, Harry."

The conversation dies down for a minute while Potter looks slightly uncertain. They haven't looked up, yet. I can't help but admit that I'm intrigued.

I don't know what it is about Potter that never fails to get my undivided attention. If I sat back and actually pondered it, I'd probably come to some rather uncomfortable conclusions. But this isn't the time or place. And today I'm going to play on instinct.

I look around surreptitiously and draw my wand out of my work robes. You learn a couple of tricks acting as a liaison for Goblins. What with their highly sensitive hearing skills, there comes a time when you require eavesdropping on those nastily suspicious buggers from quite a bit away to avoid being heard.

This is a bad idea. This is a very,  _very_ bad idea.

But I'm going to do it anyway.

" _Auditus."_ I whisper, pointing my wand at the duo from underneath the table.

The effect is instantaneous. The din in the pub dies down immediately and I can hear the Weasel's voice as if I'm sitting right with them at the table.

"Look Harry, I'm your best mate. I know when something's wrong. That combined with the fact that Hermione agrees sort of has me thinking I'm on the right path this time."

Potter looks like he's about to argue but Weasley holds a hand up to silence him.

"I know what you're gonna say, so hear me out before you argue. Just answer me this: why did you  _really_ think you and Ginny needed a break? You can lie as much as you want to me, but I reckon you know the truth."

Potter stiffens in his seat. Him and the Weaslette aren't together anymore? This is turning interesting. I shift slightly in my seat, still watching the pair and willing them not to look up and notice me. Yet.

"Ron. This isn't a conversation I want to have with you. I don't really know why I broke up with Ginny, and honestly, it doesn't even matter now. But what I do know is that I'm more than ready to get back with her."

Potter hesitates, then continues.

"I've already bought the ring."

Suddenly Weasley's the one who looks like he's been put on the back foot, and for a moment he's stumped. Then he speaks, in a much lower voice than before.

"That serious, huh?"

Potter only nods.

Weasley takes a deep breath. It sounds resigned.

"Listen, mate, this is all the more reason for you to just do this. If I'm wrong, well, it'll just be a bad memory; if not, then I'm saving you on a lifetime of misery. It's a small price to pay. I wouldn't force you into this if I wasn't sure."

Suddenly a flicker of  _something_ flares up in Potter's deep green eyes, and for a moment I'm scared. I know that look very well. I should, considering the amount of times it'd been directed towards me at Hogwarts.

"Is this because of that bloke from Chelsea?" he says, and it's little more than a growl.

Weasley looks sheepish, and I  _know_ it's about the bloke from Chelsea, whoever the fuck he is.

What does it say about me that this is the most entertained I've been in weeks? Not much, apart from proving what a pathetic existence I lead.

Potter continues, oblivious to my drowning in self-pity.

"Ron, we went out for drinks.  _Once._ Nothing happened - not that I intended for it to, in the first place - and nothing will. He's returned now, anyway."

Potter closes his eyes and then reopens them slowly, and he looks as if he's praying for strength.

" _I am not gay."_

And just like that, the world stops for a minute while I freeze and their conversation clicks into place.

My Guinness trembles a bit in my hand, all but forgotten in the wake of my eavesdropping. I set it down.

Weasley looks a bit uncertain, but it's only a flicker before a smug smile makes its way onto his freckled frame.

He looks positively horrid.

"Then why did you agree to come here tonight?"

Potter splutters, and for a moment I'm afraid he'll choke on his own saliva. Not that I'd be upset, I'd be the first to dance on his grave.

"I didn't - this isn't - what I meant was - oh for fuck's sake, you talked me into this, Ron!"

"'Talked you into this'? And since when has anyone been able to make you do anything you didn't want to unless you had the inclination in the first place?"

Potter looks like he doesn't know how to reply to that, and Weasley knows he's won.

He begins to speak again, but Potter cuts him off.

"Okay, okay, I get your point. If I do this, will you leave it alone after tonight?"

Weasley looks overjoyed. I think I might retch. He clasps Potter on the back and says loudly, cheerfully, "That's the spirit, mate! Now go pick up some poor, unsuspecting lad from the bar. I'm sure there'll be plenty of them willing to sleep with you!"

Potter looks around in shock and hisses under his breath. "Ron! Keep your voice down! And there's another loophole in your brilliant plan - how the fuck do you expect me to chat up some bloke with the intention to shag him? This face isn't exactly non-recognizable, if you haven't noticed." He gestures at himself.

Weasley looks at him in sudden realization, and I see he hasn't thought of that aspect.

"Oh, fuck, mate, I hadn't thought of that before."

"Yeah, to you guys I may be just Harry, but most other people tend to look at me as  _Harry Potter."_

He spits the words with barely concealed contempt and I recoil impulsively from the force of it, even though I'm seated about 12 feet away.

Weasley's stumped.

And that's when he finally chooses to look up.

_Fuck._

I look at him casually, trying to act like I wasn't just watching them with curiosity I didn't even care to disguise. Weasley stiffens almost instantly, and Potter looks up to see what's wrong.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment I forget myself when I see the disdain return to his emerald orbs. But it's something less than what it was in our adolescence, and I'm intrigued - yet again. It's not hate; not really.

"Look who it is," Weasley says under his breath, but it has no effect on my listening with the Auditory Charm still in use. I give them a look that speaks volumes in the Fine Art of Nonchalance and raise an accusatory eyebrow. "The poncy, ferrety little git."

Potter says nothing, still holding my gaze; a glint of a challenge in his eye.

I realize I've allowed my beer to get warm, and I swig from it to keep up my I'm-a-Malfoy-and-I-don't-give-a-flying-fuck-what-you-think-of-me charade, never looking away from Potter.

It isn't sincere; it hasn't been for long now. There's only so much you can keep up when everything else passes in a blur of numb.

Weasley looks uncomfortable, and that's when he turns back to Potter.

"Mate," he says, still looking ill-at-ease. Potter tears his gaze away from me, reluctant to be the first one to give in.

"What?" He asks, slightly distracted.

"Listen, I've got an idea." Weasley shifts in his seat, clearly unwilling to go any further. He now has Potter's undivided attention who raises a single eyebrow in inquiry.

I didn't know the bastard could do that.

"Go on, then."

"Well... You're not gonna like it, that's for sure, but it seems like the only way..."

Potter rolls his eyes. "Spit it out, Ron."

It comes out in a hurried rush and it takes me a moment to fill in the gaps that Weasley refrains from inserting.

"I-think-you-should-chat-up-Malfoy-and-get-him-to-sleep-with-you."

What. The.  _Fuck?_

For once, Potter seems to agree with me, as is obvious by the incredulous expression on his face.

" _What?_ "

Potter's not even bothering to refrain from drawing attention to himself, immediately spluttering in protest.

"Listen, listen - Harry, just listen to me for once, dammit!"

Weasley steadies him with a hand at the shoulder and plunges on.

"Mate, he's the only one here to whom it wouldn't matter that you're the Boy-Who-Lived. I know it sounds barmy, but I haven't gone bonkers. Plus, you know him - yeah, even though you know how lightly I use that term - and he couldn't be further away from straight even if he lived at the intersection of Pouf and Ponce."

"But he  _hates_ me!"

I might've been slightly indignant at the Weasel's comment had I not been noting with interest the way Potter hadn't included his own less-than-friendly affections in his semantics.

"Consider it an... experiment. Besides, I'm sure you can find enough of a threat to hold over his head if he lets anyone know about it. You know I'd be the last person to sponsor this, but I don't think you have any other choices right now, mate."

"But he's  _Malfoy_!"

"And you're unsure, and he's your best bet. You know how bad you've got it if Malfoy's suddenly the best choice you have right now."

"No. Just no. I won't do it." He's reminding me a lot of a petulant five year old, replete with a pout.

Weasley's losing his patience. "Do you  _see_ any other option?"

"I refuse to believe Malfoy's the only one here who's suitable. I'll chat up another bloke; I'll Obliviate him, whatever!" Potter looks desperate. "But I will  _not_ sleep with  _him._ "

If it was someone other than Potter, I'd have been quite hurt. But as the situation happened to be, it  _was_ Potter, and I'm amused.

"Mate.  _Mate._ Look at me. You're the fucking Head Auror of the Ministry, for Merlin's sake. Are you seriously considering Obliviating someone just to avoid Malfoy?"

Potter looks defeated and breathes out through his nose noisily. "This could go very wrong, very soon."

"Let's hope it doesn't, then, right?" Weasley says cheerfully, once again thumping Potter on the shoulder.

Potter scowls petulantly.

"How am I supposed to go about it, though? I can't just walk up to him and start flirting. He'll see right through it in a minute. Not with our history."

"Maybe just be up forward about it?" Weasley shrugs sympathetically. "You guys could probably work out a deal while you're at it. Suit both parties."

Potter doesn't look pleased, but he's nodding nonetheless. I cast a quick  _Finite_ once I realize he's rising.

I feel a shiver going down my spine. What the fuck just happened in these last couple of minutes?

Potter's making no fuss about the fact that he's heading straight towards me. I sit back in the cushions of the booth, schooling my features into a careful mask of indifference, my now completely warm bottle still grasped in one hand.

It does nothing to remedy the fact that for the first time in years, I can  _feel_ something. It's a roiling in my gut that isn't pleasant. But it isn't entirely  _un_ pleasant either.

"Well well, look what the Crup dragged in. If it isn't the Wonder Boy, the saviour of all wizardkind. Come to remind us all what a debt we still owe you?"

My sneer is back in place, but it feels stiff on my face after years of disuse. I realize with another pang how long it's been since I even snarked at anyone. I haven't even had occasion to do as so.

It's not a pleasant revelation. What's happened to me?

Potter rolls his eyes at me. A gesture I've grown highly acquainted with in the years gone by.

"Sod off, Malfoy. I'm not here for your shit."

"Touchy, touchy. In case it's escaped your poorly attentive notice, you're the one that approached me. It goes by default that I hold no favours towards you in this situation. I didn't ask you to come over."

I know what he wants, of course. But that doesn't mean I'm going to make it easy for him. Another thrill goes through me, only this time it's excitement at inciting him.

Two emotions within moments of each other?

I'm so fucked.

Potter's eyes narrow. He's leaning lightly with his hips on the edge of the other side of the table of my booth, arms crossed defensively over his chest. He continues, ignoring my comment.

"Look Malfoy, I'm not here to play games, and I'm gonna be straight with you on this."

I snort aloud at the unintended pun. Potter realizes the cause of my amusement and I don't think I imagine the faint tinge of pink that makes its way onto his cheeks, but he's still speaking.

"You're bent. Everyone knows that." He sounds like he's trying to reassure himself rather than state a fact.

"Once again Potter, you seem to have a natural talent for pointing out the obvious. Your point being?"

"I need your help with something."

"My, my, I didn't know you were that desperate. How far the mighty have fallen." I'm still looking at him in amusement, using it to keep a semblance of calm when I'm feeling anything  _but_. There are unnamed emotions coursing through my veins. I don't think there are that many of them, but when you're  _feeling_ again after a literal lifetime of apathy, it's almost like a whirlwind. I can't distinguish between them.

"Shut up and listen to me. I'm looking to sort some things out and I think you can help me."

"And why would I want to do that? Don't play semantics with me, Potter, or I won't refrain from beating you at your own game. What do you want?"

Potter's looking well on his way as a passenger of the Pissed-Off Train right now, so I know it's only a couple more minutes before he snaps. I'm surprised, therefore, when a look of hard determination sneaks onto his features and stays there.

He unfolds his arms from his chest and places his hands palm-down on the table between us. Leaning in slowly, he nears until he's only a breath away from my face. An evil smile winds its way along his mouth.

"What I want,  _Malfoy,_ is for you to fuck me."

He draws out the last two words, ghosting them in the breath he plays over my face.

I'm frozen.

I blink, my mouth suddenly dry, and in that space of a second he's already back to his earlier upright position, but with his hands on his sides now.

It's only now that I truly appraise him. He's grown several inches since school, something that the curt acknowledgements in corridors haven't really revealed to me. He'd still be two or three inches shorter than me if I stood, though. His frame isn't as scrawny as I remember it, and he's packed on a good deal of muscle on his arms and chest, but only so much that he still manages to look delectably slender. The deep red button-down he's wearing has been tailored perfectly to his frame, hugging his slightly sloping shoulders, thin waist and flat abdomen. He's pushed up the sleeves almost carelessly to three-quarters of the way down. He's wearing perfectly pressed khaki trousers which are once again made to fit to his, quite frankly, gropable arse; though I can't see much of it from our positions. But I know a good arse when I see one, front or back.

His jet black hair is as messy as usual, sticking up all over his head, but he's stylishly shorn it a bit in descent nearing the base of his head. The rest of it is an average length, except for his fringe, which he's allowed to grow down just to the top of his cheekbones near his temples and the sides of his face, but curl only over his eyebrows on his forehead. He's still got those ridiculous glasses which hide the power of his green, green eyes, though, and I wonder why he hasn't at least changed the frame to a more sensible-looking rectangular shape.

And I still have to concede he looks better than I've ever seen him, while I'm a fucking dark-circled, pale-faced mess.

He's continuing to smirk at me, though; that impertinent, insufferable little sod. I hadn't expected him to come clean, and I hate to admit it, but Potter's put me on the back foot. But this is still a game, and I reckon he knows it too.

And I can play just as well as him.

Through this little display of his, I hadn't been caught so unawares as to let my cool mask of amusement wash away completely, but I return with wands a'cursing whatever had faltered for those brief seconds.

"Looks like somebody's got their knickers in a twist with the effort of trying to get into my pants. What's the matter Potter, Weaslette not fucking you anymore? She realize you're too much of a cocksucker for her?"

Instantly, I know I've gone too far. I can see the unadulterated hatred return to his eyes. They're the same colour the fire is in the Floo for that split second between shouting out the name of your destination and disappearing into it. His hands are balling into fists at his sides and I just know he's going to sock me in the nose.

I've haven't felt this  _alive_ in a long time.

But Weasley's by his side in a second and I can't explain the disappointment I feel. He whispers something in his ear through gritted teeth, his eyes screaming a warning against mine as he's looking at me and I see Potter's body slowly relaxing.

Potter nods at Weasley once as he walks back to their booth cautiously.

"I don't care for anything you have to say. It doesn't affect me. You've always been a right arsehole and I don't see that changing. Honestly, I don't give a fuck, either way. I'm here for one thing only. So are we going to do this or not?"

"You surprise me, Potter - I'd always had you pegged as a blushing bride. Finally grew a pair, did you?"

Potter turns a bit pink again. I continue on without paying heed.

"Regardless, what's in it for me? Or has my lack of incentive once again escaped your brilliant notice?"

"You're getting a quick shag out of it with no strings attached? Oh come on Malfoy, don't pretend that isn't why you're here in the first place."

Potter's looking at me a bit desperately, and that's when I know he doesn't have much to offer me, apart from the obvious.

"As  _enticing_ as that offer sounds, I don't think you're that good of a fuck for that to be all that counts. We've a, how shall I put this,  _history_ to keep in mind, you see. And what good would it do to my fearsome reputation if I start jumping into bed with every other Chosen One that whores himself out to me?"

Potter's losing his patience now, and I'm twirling my bottle between my hands playfully.

He continues, little more of a hint of that desperation in his voice. "I'll help get you a position up with the top blokes at the Goblin Liaison Office. A big promotion, guaranteed."

He's no less than  _pleading_ now.

And besides the fact that my mind had already been made up for me in some corner of my subconscious from the moment I heard his plan, I still let him squirm a bit before I give in.

I toss the bottle between my hands for a bit more time, still looking at him with that shit-eating grin on my face. He's trying not to wring his hands now. But I can see the urge.

Finally, "You know what Potter? I hate to admit this, but I love seeing you beg. Are you this submissive in the bedroom as well? Merlin knows I like my shags that way. So, even though you're not much of a negotiator, I accept. Because," I lower my voice dangerously, "I think making you scream my name while I'm pounding you into the wall will be a satisfactory end to this day."

Potter's eyes go as wide as a house elf's and he's gaping at me unrestrainedly. I smirk away at him, still twirling the bottle.

_Draco - one, Potter - nil. Who's on the back foot now?_

Before he can recover, I stand up in a swish of my robes and toss a couple of Galleons onto the counter.

"Let's make this quick, shall we? I haven't got all day. Or night."

Potter's stopped mouthing like a goldfish but his eyes are still wide in a haze of disbelief. I roll my own and jerk him slightly by the scruff of his neck, moving out of the booth in the same motion.

"Fucking Merlin, Potter, if you're going to act like an invalid then I'll have to  _politely_ retract my acceptance. We're going to your place, so make it choppy. I can't go through the Floo without the address."

I'm enjoying this far more than should be allowed.

Potter finally composes himself.

"Why my place?" is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

"Because I said so, fuckwit."

Fact of the matter is I never take any of my shags back to the Manor. I can't enjoy a night of buggering with the demons of my past, present and foreseeable future running amok there. Potter's no different.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Malfoy."

And he's back. I smirk to myself as we make our way to the Floo.

Weasley's still at their booth while we're leaving. I can see his doubts over his own plan run along his face as clearly as the light of day, but Potter nods almost imperceptibly to him and he relaxes.

"Where to?"

"Number 12, Grimmauld Place. It's here in London."

"Fair enough," I say, and take a pinch of Floo powder from the pot over the mantle. I throw the Floo powder down, walk in and just before I shout out the address, I wink at Potter. His eyes widen again, and then I'm gone.

This is going to be an interesting night.

 

### Part III

 

I step out of the Floo, coughing slightly. No matter how many years I've been using it, the ash still manages to catch a bit in my throat and it's not a welcome feeling. I dust soot off my robes and turn around to face the fireplace. Shouldn't be long now before Potter appears.

And then a chill goes through me. What exactly am I doing? I haven't throught this through at  _all,_ and I have no clue what I'm expecting to come of tonight. Why had I thought this was a good idea, again? I'm in Potter's apartment, waiting to  _shag_ him, for Merlin's sake. If someone had told me about this a decade ago I'd have laughed in their face and thrown in a Trip Jinx for good measure. And then have them carded off to St. Mungo's for some serious mental issues.

Potter manages to get under my skin - in all ways possible, with both anger and lust - like no other person ever has, and I think my prick will bear good witness to that fact from the amount of times I've wanked myself raw in the shower to fantasies of him running unrestrainedly through my over-imaginative mind, but the only thing I seem capable of asking myself is  _why?_ Don't get me wrong - I don't fancy him or anything of the sort, at all. Far from it, honestly; I still hate him with a vengeance even the Dark Lord's own sentiments could rival, but there's just something about Potter that has my blood rushing to my groin whenever I think of him. I hate him - but I also want to fuck him mercilessly. I have ever since that first night I woke up with my sheets in a mess.

And tonight, here, standing in his sitting room, I realize I'm going to finally get my chance in some weird, twisted sense of fate where he's using me to figure out his own sexuality.

Well, isn't this a one for the books. Where in the blazes is Potter, anyway?

Just as I think he's pansied out enough to leave me alone in his own house, Potter stumbles gracelessly from the Floo in a fit of coughing and sneezing. He's cursing something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like "bloody hell" and "inhaled the sodding soot, for fuck's sake" and I bite back a smirk. Typical Potter, as awkward and careless as ever.

On catching me watching him, however, he hastily straightens up and dusts himself off.

"So," he says awkwardly.

"So." I return, gaze even, voice level.

"Well, er, you're here now, and, um..." He's fumbling again, and I look at him, bemused.

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink, Potter? Or have you left your manners back at the bar along with your eloquence?" I cut him off before he can continue.

He looks slightly sheepish. Rubbing at the back of his head, he says, "Oh yeah, of course, what'll you have?"

"Brandy, if you don't mind. I need something strong if we're going to do this properly."

"Coming right up, then."

He walks out of the sitting room into the adjoining kitchen, and I take a moment to properly take in my surroundings.

Hold on a minute.

My eyes widen in recognition as I look around. This is Aunt Walburga's place!

Oh fuck. This is  _Aunt Walburga's_ place.

He's changed a lot of the décor, of course, but I know this place from my visits here as a child. Only now does the reason for his address striking a chord with me become clear.

The sitting room's still laid out the same, but the sofa in the centre is now in a rich burgundy shade instead of the previous deep green. I roll my eyes. How predictable. The fireplace is much more homely and inviting than I remember it, and there are various knicknacks on the mantlepiece, along with several photos, wizarding and Muggle alike. A strange-looking contraption sits in front of the sofa, box-like with knobs on the front. Muggle oddity, I think, snorting. A couple of armchairs are arranged in a corner with a coffee table between them, facing the centre of the room. I look at the curtains on the window with some trepidation. Last I remembered, they contained some highly unsavoury creatures. But they look considerably cleaner now, and they're different - less heavy.

The orange streetlights from outside cast an eerie glow on the ceiling of the room. It's lit dimly but comfortably by only lamps - I remember that Muggleborn from my department, Cole, I think his name was, having a couple in his office; he said they worked on something called elek-trick-sitee - scattered around (admittedly artfully) on small tables and shelves that seem to have no other purpose than to provide a place for them. The windows are larger now, too, their glass so much cleaner and clearer. The lowers ends of them extend to just a couple of feet above the ground, and seem to be purposed for sitting - I'm sure they've been magically enlarged by a couple of well-placed charms. I can almost imagine Potter curling up on one of them on a sunny day with a novel and a steaming cup of tea, that coveted sunlight heating his legs and hands and the cool stone of the windowsill, the harsh London wind cutting a defiant path through the warmth from the ever-so-slightly open window. I banish that image hastily from my mind just before it can form fully.

All in all, I have to give Potter some credit for cleaning up the place well. At least now it doesn't look like I might be casually accosted by Doxys when I sit on the sofa.

Potter walks back in, balancing two snifters and a bottle of brandy in his hands. Placing them on the coffee table, he pours out two fingers each and joins me at my place at the mantlepiece, which I've reclaimed to look at his photos, handing me a snifter. I accept it with a murmured acknowledgment.

I  _was_ paying attention quite sincerely to the photos, but feeling Potter in such close proximity has driven away all thoughts from my brain apart from those of lust.

This isn't right, and I know it. My existence for the last 5 years has been hollow, to say the least. I've forgotten what it's like to  _feel_ , to actually let go and have the rush of emotions wash over me. To allow my gut to roil when I'm uneasy; to allow my stomach to flop energetically when I'm excited. To be amused by a simple back-and-forth or to let my rage out like I'm spitting fire. Apart from my nightmares, where I'm open and vulnerable because I simply can't help it, I haven't allowed anything to have that sort of power over me. How is it that one meeting with Potter has managed to put to shame everything that's been safe; everything that's been reliable over the past few years? And what for? A shag that I've fantasized over for the better part of a decade?

Like I said, I was never a wishful thinker. But that was before I knew I'd end up in a situation similar to the one I've currently found myself in.

This is slowly treading into dangerous waters. And all those people who keep waxing eloquent about experiences making you a better person? It's bollocks. I don't  _need_ another so-called experience to scar me some more. Merlin knows I have enough of those to last me a lifetime - and then some.

Potter's voice cracks me out of my reverie. It sounds like it's coming from far away. "Malfoy? Are you alright?"

I realize I've been staring at the mantle with my eyes unfocused. I give myself a mental shake and everything swims back into reality.

"You don't seem like you're doing a good job of trying to get me pissed," I say, suddenly intent on studying the glass with a slight smirk, switching topics as fast as possible so that stupid Potter doesn't press on why I blanked so completely.

"I didn't think I wanted to give you a reason to claim that this was non-consensual and due to the influence of too much alcohol tomorrow morning. Regret is a powerful emotion, which is probably why I'm sober myself." Potter runs a hand through his hair and winks, grinning.

"And what makes you think I'll stay the night? I'm not your boyfriend, Potter." Really, I enjoy winding him up way more than should be allowed.

He has the embarrassment to flush a bright red and I smirk. But he's up and running again, and I'd be lying if I said I'd expected him to back down so easily. "Well, Malfoy, I won't read anything into it if you stay. I'm old enough to handle myself, you know. And in case you haven't noticed, it's pretty late. I'm not heartless enough to toss even  _you_  out into the cold at whatever ungodly hour of the night." No bite, just straightforward intentions. I'm impressed. Potter's much different from what I expected him to be after all these years.

I'm about to make another snarky comment (really, I can't help myself around him) when something furry and warm and  _very not right_  brushes around the back of my ankles. "What in the blazes-?" I jump a mile high in my skin and before I know it, I'm tipping forward and into Potter's chest, my snifter escaping from my hand and sloshing amber liquid all over the carpet.

Potter's hands are at my shoulders and steadying me before I can fall in earnest, his own glass clutched precariously in one hand. And he's laughing, the fucking bastard is  _laughing,_ and suddenly I feel like scowling petulantly.

"Relax Malfoy, it's only Padfoot." I regain my balance and look downwards to see a small and completely black coloured kitten looking up at me innocently, its yellow eyes wide and unblinking as it swishes its tail back and forth.

It's rather cu- No. I stop myself before I can finish that mental sentence. What it is, is it's revolting.

I look back up, but Potter's hands are still at my shoulders, and his laugh has faded, replaced by something else - something more thoughtful. Contemplating. Calculating.

He's right here, the main star of all my wickedest fantasies, the person who I've wanted to fuck since I was a randy teenager; all here, all for me to take, within reach and giving himself up, and I'm honestly rethinking my fucking  _feelings_ like some hormonal girl right now? Sod my buggering emotions, this is  _sex,_  sentiments have bollocks to do with it. I don't need feelings to tide me along. I never have for all these years, so why start now? It's not difficult to get through sex with shutting down emotionally and just giving in to primal, carnal pleasures - I stand a testament to that fact by the number of faceless fucks I've had in the past couple of years. I'm a grown adult, I came here for one purpose and one purpose only, and fuck my arse if I'm not going to get through it  _right now._

With that thought very firmly embedded in my mind, I reach for Potter's collar to pull his face up those two or three inches of difference between our heights and towards my own. He sees the intention in the blazing of my eyes just moments before I follow through with it, and I don't think I imagine the look of fear and apprehension in his own orbs just before he crashes into me and I mash our lips together. Potter's arms slip from their grip on my shoulders and plummet over and behind them to my back due to the force of being drawn close to me. His snifter joins mine on the floor, its contests adding graciously to the spreading stain from my own already on the carpet. I hear a slight sound from his lips beneath mine which sounds something like "mmrph!" at the same time that there's an indignant yowl from somewhere between our legs, as I stumble onto a thing that's thin and furry and darts out from underneath me almost as quickly.

Potter's body is stock still and frozen against mine, his lips unresponsive. One of my hands is still fisted at his collar, the other lying limply by my side. His own lie placed gingerly between my shoulder blades, though I think it's more from the shock of what's happening that they're frozen there rather than as a gesture of gentleness. With a hard hurtle of fear that drops my stomach to my feet, I realize the foolishness of my actions. Potter's never done this before; not with another man, and he's unsure of whatever's happening as it is. For all I know all this gay business is bollocks and he really  _is_ straight, and if I push him too hard, he might be scared into running screaming for the hills before I even get my chance.

So fixated am I cursing myself mentally while simultaneously being overcome with an urge to go bang my head repeatedly against the nearest wall (even though I can't seem to move away from Potter) that I almost miss his tentative movements against me. His hands tighten uncertainly around my shoulders, finally resting a palm against the nape of my neck. His lips are squirming underneath mine almost as if he's testing to see what it feels like, eyes narrowed in concentration - or is it in dislike?

I don't let my sigh of relief escape me audibly. But Potter's still being so incredibly careful in what he's doing that I'm flooded with exasperation and I pull out of his grip completely.

Then Potter's standing there, fingers of a single hand resting lightly against his own lips as he looks at me dazedly, almost as if he's on another planet altogether.

"Fucking hell Potter, stop acting like an imbecilic prude. A man's mouth doesn't feel all that different from a woman's, you know." I sniff, rolling my eyes.

"No," he says, almost too quietly for me to hear, fingers still brushing his own lips. "No, it doesn't."

And then I'm stumped, because I don't know what to say to that, or what to make of how Potter's acting right now.

But I'm not given long to grapple for an answer because then Potter's the one leading the attack, inhibitions all but forgotten as he lunges at me with green fire in his eyes, lips mashing forcefully against mine. I stumble backwards and he traps me against the wall, palms coming to rest against it on either side of my neck.

And then I'm thanking all the deities that will care to listen because dear fucking Merlin, his lips are finally,  _finally_ moving against mine in earnest and it feels so fucking good and they're far from perfect; slightly chapped at the edges but I'm loving the feel of every ridge and every groove on them, memorizing and mapping them with my own mouth. My hands entangle roughly in his wild hair and pull him closer, needing to feel him  _moredeeperbetter._  And when I feel his tongue swipe tentatively against the crease in my lips, I have to struggle not to jump him right then and there because this is so much better than anything I could've imagined.

I open up hungrily, almost greedily and meet him halfway, my tongue entangling against his before he can even anticipate it. The kiss is anything but sweet, it's hungry and fierce and ungentle but I couldn't care less because it's perfect. Our teeth are clacking together as our tongues fight in a battle of dominance when I change tactics and clamp down on Potter's full lower lip, biting it hard enough to break skin.

There's a zing racing down every nerve ending in my body, something that's zapping the life in me into overdrive as I snog Potter mercilessly, desperate for air but not quite ready to give up this bloody amazing feeling for something that seems as banal as oxygen just yet. I can feel the hair on my arms and neck rise, and I've  _never_ felt this good kissing anyone before. And  _fuck,_  all my blood rushes towards my groin as I rapidly swell in my trousers and this just feels so much better than anything my mind could ever create. He's hissing against me because of my teeth's relentless onslaught, and taking advantage of the situation, I suck his lower lip into my mouth and  _gods,_ he tastes so fucking good. There's no strawberries or vanilla or cinnamon or any of that utter fucking rubbish that people talk about tasting when they snog someone, but it's still so much better than any of that crap because it's  _Harry,_ and I can taste something that's just entirely  _him,_ a taste that I couldn't describe even if I wanted to and now that I've gotten a taste I want more, I want all of it,  _now._

He seems to be thinking along the same lines because he pulls away reluctantly, breathless and panting, eyes glazed over with glasses askew, hair even more mussed than usual, face flushed, lips swollen and moist and bearing only a slightly bleeding graze - the evidence of my attack. There's an unmistakable bulge in his fitted khaki trousers and I get a rush just looking at it, content in the knowledge that I'm the cause for it. He's looking thoroughly snogged and I've never seen Potter look more shaggable in all his life.

"Fuck," is all he says.

"I know." I reply, just as respiratorically challenged as him.

"We need to... We should..."

"Take this upstairs?" I complete for him, though Merlin knows how because my brain feels just as articulate as Potter is being right now.

"Yeah," he pants, still struggling to catch his breath.

That's all the confirmation I need, because the next thing I know, my body has taken over due to lack of brain function and I'm lurching forward as he moves away, my hand grasping his wrist so tightly it'll surely leave bruises but I don't care. I move quickly towards the staircase, my erection straining against the fabric of my trousers under my robes, begging for release and then I'm stumbling over the stairs.

I hardly even notice the absense of those godawful elf heads on the walls because now I'm moving blindly up the stairs, Potter still in tow as I pull him uncaringly, just so fucking desperate to get to his bedroom and take him so hard he won't even remember his own name. I end up on a landing with about four doors around and I'm spinning, not even aware which door leads to his room when suddenly I feel resistance from Potter, and I turn around to see him standing with his heels dug firmly into the ground.

"What?" I ask, beyond caring how my voice comes out all croaky and husky.

"This is it," he says, flicking his head towards a door I just passed, eyes firmly on mine. He's got an unreadable expression and it almost feels like he's searching my own face for something.

"What're we waiting for, then?" I say, and his face cracks into an uncertain grin, but a grin nonetheless. He switches our grips so quickly I miss it, and now it's his hand around my wrist, tugging gently as he slowly walks backwards, pushing the door open with his back, his eyes never leaving mine. His gaze turns so intense that it's disconcerting and I want to look away, but I  _can't_  because it's hypnotizing. I can't shake the feeling that somehow, Potter's looking through me, _into_ me, laying me bare with only all my vulnerabilities and insecurities out on display. I feel the heat creeping up my neck due to the scrutiny, and then all thoughts flee my mind because we're in his room.

For a moment, I don't even know what I expected it be, just that this wasn't it. It was clean, so very clean, and almost impersonal. It has a desk and a wardrobe and a large, beautiful mahogany four-poster bed. There's a window above the table, thin curtains undrawn across it, moonlight spilling onto the desk and illuminating the room quite brightly, albeit with an eerie glow. But the room could've belonged to anyone and apart from the fact that there were just a few photos tacked up to the doors of the cupboard, it looks like a guest room.

"Really, Potter? Do you find me so undeserving of the high prize of bedding the Chosen One that you have to fuck me in the guest room to remind me of my place?" My voice has cleared enough now for my sneer to come through quite prominently, and the slight hurt I'm feeling scares me. Fuck.

"This isn't the guest room." He answers, quietly.

My eyes widen in disbelief before I can stop myself. "Good grief, Potter, I think you've misunderstood the meaning of having your own room. In your own house, nonetheless. Why is it so...  _bare_?"

I clamp my traitorous mouth shut before any more moronic words can spill out. Why did I ask him that? It's none of my bloody business. I shouldn't even care, regardless. It has a bed and that's all I need, why should I be buggered about the rest of it?

But I am.

Potter's still quiet as he responds. "Can we not talk about this right now, please? You're sort of ruining the moment." He attempts to grin but it comes out as an awkward grimace.

"I wasn't aware we were having a 'moment'," I say, desperately willing the flush creeping back up my face to vanish because goddammit, I  _know_ what he's referring to. But even through the haze of my other thoughts, I don't want to give up on the topic of the room. Why in the world is it like this? But I'm not going to ask and Potter isn't going to tell me even if I did decide it important enough to consort to pushing the topic. So I mentally shrug it off.

"You wouldn't recognize a moment if it flew in on a hippogriff and smacked you in the face, Malfoy," he says, rolling his eyes.

I have a sudden vision of Granger socking me in the nose over that sodding hippogriff in third year, and I blink stupidly a few times before I regain myself.

"Oh, I'll show you a moment," I growl, and suddenly my instincts take over as I snap my wrist from his grasp and shove him backwards towards the bed. Potter's eyes widen in surprise at my sudden change in demeanour but then he has a wicked gleam in his eyes. And really, he's enjoying this far more than should be appropriate for a purported straight boy. I lunge at him just before he reaches the edge of the four-poster and claim his lips again. His glasses cut into my nose, and I'm so desperate to just take him that I move back, reach between us and remove it fiercely. It's flung across the room and clatters audibly.

But now... Oh  _fuck._

I'm frozen, because Merlin, I've never seen Potter without his glasses before and I'm stunned. His eyes, which burned so brightly even behind the dull lenses, are now positively scorching a trail wherever they land on my face. They're such an ephemeral shade of pure  _green_ that dear Merlin, I can't form a cohesive thought. We're so close I can see the flecks of amber in it, and I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't take my eyes away from his and I can't move. They're  _beautiful_.

What's gotten into me?

"Malfoy?" Potter asks, his voice confused, still pinning me with that merciless gaze. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say, but I don't look away, and the word comes out as hardly more than a whisper.

Potter's still looking straight into my eyes, slightly confused but with  _something_ in his eyes and no, it can't  _possibly_ be affection - but then his hand comes up to touch the side of my face. His palm is warm and callused but it still has an undeniable gentleness to it that makes the texture that much more unique, that much more different, that much more  _him._ And then he's moving upwards and slowly running his hand through my hair, smoothing it out, caressing it, stroking it. His fingers are entwined surely in my locks, his thumb stroking it outwards. The gesture can't be described as anything other than tender, and  _fuck,_ it's been so long since anyone's touched me like this. Sure, I've had an indeterminate number of fucks in the last few years, but it's always been a get in, get off, get out situation. And never,  _never_ have our actions been anything other than brash - they've never been this gentle, this intimate. I almost allow myself to enjoy it, eyes fluttering shut, heart swelling in appreciation as snitches fly around in my stomach, when I suddenly remember myself.

And I'm scared out of my mind.

I pull out abruptly from his caress. For a moment Potter almost looks hurt, but then it's replaced by mien of indifference and I know I must have imagined it.

This is ridiculous. I'm getting far more than I bargained for, and I don't want all the  _other stuff_  - at least, that's what I'm content in telling myself. I don't want to go on a fucking soul-searching trip because of one night with  _Potter,_ of all people.

"No more teasing, Potter, cut the crap and let's get on with it," I say, more to cover up my discomfort than anything else.

Potter is seemingly unruffled, though, and doesn't seem to be taking heed of my comment, his breath ghosting across my face like nothing horribly  _terrifying_ just happened in the last moment. His hands come up to undo my robes, pushing them off my shoulders slowly. It's summer, so I'm wearing only a simple white cotton polo shirt and dark grey wool trousers underneath, a comfortable attire I prefer to stick to below my work robes because I never have occasion to remove them at the Ministry. Robes discarded in a heap on the floor, Potter's fingers make their way under the hem of my untucked shirt, curling around it.

And then he stops.

"Oh, sod it," I mumble, because I  _know_  the bastard is deliberately teasing me. Taking the lead, I push him roughly onto the bed in earnest now, and then he's sprawled on his back on top of the bedcovers as I position myself on top and straddle his waist.

This turns out to not be the smartest move, because we both let out loud gasps at the  _fuckingsobloodygood_ friction that ensues and I have to will myself to not come right then and there in my trousers like some virginal teen. His cock is rubbing against mine, both contained by their fabric prisons and then he's looking up at me, wonder in his green eyes because he's never felt anything like this before, and I bloody well know it. I can't stop myself from bucking downwards to feel that sensation again, and Potter lets out a moan of appreciation as he meets my gesture with a upwards jerk of his own.

"Oh, you're a fucking cocksucker all right, Potter," I say, smirking, but he doesn't seem to be listening to me because his hands are grabbing at my hem again, fumbling to pull it off, desperation in his eyes. I assist him and toss the shirt away, coming down to meet his lips for more of that amazing sensation that I can't get enough of. We're rutting against each other now, hips bucking and flying while knees and shins scramble for purchase on bed linen. I reach between us, my lips and tongue still enclosed in that searing cavern of his, trying desperately to make the kiss as deep as possible and I undo his shirt buttons with a practiced ease, but leave it on his shoulders because I'm now moving my attention downwards to his trousers. It's an awkward angle but it works, and soon his buckle lies undone as I break open the buttons of his fly.

Then I pull back, a wicked gleam in my eyes, because  _this_ is the real show.

"Sit back, Potter, you're going to like this." I smirk, wriggling my hips so that I'm straddling his knees now, and slowly tug off his trousers and boxers together in one fluid moment until they're just at the end of his thighs.

Potter's cock is standing up at attention, the red head gleaming in the not-light of the room. It's already oozing shiny liquid, and the base and his balls are enclosed in thick black curls that thin out upwards under his undone-but-not-discarded deep red shirt. Raising my gaze further, I see the line of tanned flesh peeking out and teasing me from between the two lines of stitching of his button-down, right up to his collarbone. Potter's chest is rising and falling sharply with his breaths. I give myself a couple of moments to appreciate the sight in front of me, because  _fuck,_ this is my most obsessive fantasy come true and I want to make it last for as long as possible. The sight of Potter with his cock out, red and gleaming and erect  _for me,_ hair spread out across the pale blue bed linen, face flushed, eyes wild and breath hitching, looking utterly debauched before I've even had a go sends the heat pooling in my abdomen and my cock hardens even more, impossibly. But the thing that has my heartbeat racing to an unbelievable pace is that he's eyeing me with a look that is far more submissive than I would've expected from  _him._

When he asked me at the bar to fuck him, it was definitely just a way to get my attention.

But now,  _here,_ after he's gotten a little preview, I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that he'd allow me to do to him whatever I want without a single protest.

In a fit of inspiration, I lean forwards and onto him. I feel his leaking cock flop against my bare belly, and his eyes follow me as much as possible as I place my face above the crook of his neck. Speaking in a dangerously low voice, I whisper against his ear, "Now,  _Potter,_ if you know what's good for you, you'll do  _exactly_ as I say. Is that clear?" For good measure, I flick my tongue out and run it over and into the ridges of the shell of his ear. I feel him shudder beneath me. His cork jerks violently against my abdomen.

"I said, is that clear?" I'm toying with him now; he knows it, I know it, but this is completely unpredictable territory for us both - it's always been that way regarding anything new between the two of  _us._ And I don't know about him, but I'm very interested to see how it turns out.

He nods frantically against me, slight stubble rubbing my own and I smirk, because I know I've got him now - the bastard's just as interested as me.

"Good," I whisper, and straighten up again. "Shirt off." It's nothing more than a command. Potter scrambles to obey me, and with a little shifting from the both of us, it joins the steadily growing collection of Forgotten Clothes On The Floor.

Potter's chest is toned and tanned, abdomen standing out in perfectly lined and hard relief. The Auror Force has been kind to him, because his athletic build is so mouth-wateringly fantastic that my cock jerks in appreciation. He's not bulky, though, and can be described as slender - not as much as myself - but it's equally offset by his muscles in a way I can only hope to describe. He's a world away from the scrawny boy I knew at Hogwarts. The vast expanse of skin is too enticing for me to take, and I need to feel that tanned body against me  _now._ "Now stay perfectly still." I'm still straddling his knees, so I shift slightly upwards to halfway up his thighs and then descend hungrily onto his neck. I'm biting down hard as he hisses in lustful pain, then sucking the skin into my mouth to soothe it. I'm almost savagely happy that I'll be leaving my mark on his body, a tangible sign to say  _yes, Draco Malfoy had sex with Harry fucking Potter who's been teasing me in my mind for seven fucking years and it was fucking fantastic,_ and then I'm moving downwards onto his prominent collarbone, grazing my teeth lightly all the way. I swirl my tongue against the jutting line, sucking his skin into my mouth, and it takes me a moment to realize that Potter's actually  _keening._ He's making the most beautifully undignified sounds, and my own cock jerks in appreciation in its prison. The only way I can stand not doing anything about it is the knowledge that I'll be inside Potter soon, and that'll prove to be fantastic, if the foreplay is anything to go by.

He's pushing up against me, desperate to gain some friction from against my torso but I hold his hip down with one hand as the other skims the trail of saliva I've left behind on his body. Continuing in my oral mapping of his body, I flick one pinkish-brown nipple with the tip of my tongue, and Potter growls and arches his back, held down only by my grip on his hip.

I lift my mouth just enough to growl back, "I  _said,_ stay still, Potter," He relaxes just a bit, and the feeling of having his sort of power over Potter gives me a heady rush of lust. I'm nipping at his nipple now, and he's whimpering with the effort of not moving under my grip. Oh  _god,_ this feels so much better than anything I've ever done, and I'm loving every minute of it, every single touch and taste and sound. I finally trail a path down with my tongue to stop at a point on his stomach just above his cock. I flick my eyes upwards to Potter's ones - which seem to have a life of their own - and I see that he's writhing on the bed.

I wait for him to look down at me, which he does once he realizes I've stopped my descent. Green flames grasp on to grey storms and hold there as Potter stills slightly, and a bizarre thought creeps unbidden into my mind about the emerald and silver escaping from our eyes and swirling together into a maelstrom of colour. But I can't bring myself to look away, so instead I whisper, "Listen carefully to what I want you to do next, Potter. You're going to stay exactly where you are, and you're going to watch me as I suck you off better than anyone has  _ever_ done before."

Potter's eyes widen almost comically, and then he's writhing on the bed again in anticipation of what's about to happen. God, I've always loved having this power over people when they're at their most vulnerable, and Potter's no different - in fact, even more so with him, because of our sodding 'history', as he so very eloquently put it back at the Horntail. His eyes are still anchored to mine, and I don't pull them away as I place my mouth directly above the head of his cock. I descend slowly and flick just the tip of my tongue over the head, banishing a bit of pre-cum from it. Potter gasps and thrusts, but my hand still holds steady on his hip. I shake my head slowly in warning, and after he stills, descend again. This time, I take in the whole head and then he's squirming and fisting the sheets in his hands in the effort to not move. And  _fuck,_ he tastes  _so_ good, all bitter-salty-sweet with the musky, heady scent of pure  _Harry-_

And then I'm losing control in a way I never have before.

I push down completely on his shaft, taking in as much as possible without triggering my gag reflex and suck him violently. I'm still looking at him, but his eyes are glazed over as he shifts and moans and gasps, and then, " _Fuck,_ Malfoy,  _oh_ -" But I don't need to hear it, because I know how good I am. My tongue follows the line of a throbbing vein, but I'm falling fast because I'm feeling as out of control as Potter looks. And when his hand entangles in my hair to jam me there, I don't fight it.

Then hips and legs are bucking violently, arms and knees and hands scrabbling for purchase on  _any_ surface as Potter fucks my mouth mercilessly, me taking it and loving every bit of it. I'm so impossibly hard that I need to do  _something,_ and as I release his hip to encircle the base of his shaft, my other hand slips down to press its heel through my trousers against my own erection, giving me some relief. I push my hand down again, hard, tighten my other one around the base of his cock and hum around Potter as he moans loudly above me. I don't know how long I go at him, I'm lost in a haze of sight and sound and touch and taste and smell when suddenly Potter's voice breaks through incoherent babblings as he gasps, "Malfoy, I'm gonna-" But now I'm too far gone and I couldn't move away even if I wanted to, and with a final buck of his hips, Potter comes hard and fast into my throat, spunk splattering the back of it violently.

I swallow almost without thinking, and then release his shaft with a wet pop. He's gasping on the bed, face flushed a deep red, and I can feel the warmth of his body below me.

"Christ," he says, and I laugh hoarsely.

"Must've been pretty good if you're rolling out the Muggle curses now, Potter."

Potter says nothing, but just looks at me. "Why are you still clothed?" he asks, as if he's only just seeing me now.

"Because,  _Potter,_ that was only a little peek. The real show's only just about to start, and I'm saving the best sight for last." I'm speaking far more confidently than I feel, because frankly, this  _thing_ with Potter is beyond anything I could have predicted and it's so far out of my usual frame of reference that I don't know what's going to happen.

I rise and position my body weight so that it's balanced by my knees on either side of Potter's hips rather than on his thighs, and reach between us to push his trousers off completely. With him starkers beneath me, I reach for my own belt and unbuckle it slowly. He's watching me, hunger in his eyes, as I languorously slip it out, hoop after hoop until it's completely off. I flip it aside, and then turn my fingers to the buttons of my fly. I undo them one by one, taking my time, and Potter's cock, which was lying limply after his explosion, begins to take interest again as it hardens slowly. And  _really,_ he's far too gone bent if he's stiffening so soon again at the mere prospect of seeing another man bare.

Buttons out of the way, I halt for a moment. Making sure I still have his undivided attention, I wriggle out of my boxers and trousers together, slowly, seductively, and shift some more to get them off my body altogether. Potter's eyeing my erect cock with barely restrained hunger now, and I begin to stroke it thoughtfully as I watch him watching me. His tongue dashes out to do a circuit of his dry lips and I know he's transfixed.

"What're you going to do now?" Potter asks, almost childlike, and I bite back a smirk at how he's the amateur in this situation.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I wink and his eyes dart back and forth from my eyes and the sight of me languidly stroking my leaking cock.

Suddenly I'm thinking of all the things I want to do to him, but more than anything I just want to be inside him  _now,_ and I don't think my poor prick can take anymore of this self-inflicted teasing.

"Back at the bar," I find myself saying to Potter, "were you completely serious when you said you wanted me to fuck you?" I raise a single eyebrow to emphasize the question.

"No," Potter says, and my stomach drops to the floor. But then he's speaking again.

"But I am now."

Those words send the heat pooling at the base of my spine and my cock jerks again. He's looking me straight in the eyes and I can't see a trace of untruth there. And then I know I'm going to do it.

"Turn around," I say abruptly. Potter hesitates, and I can see the nervousness in his face. "I've never done this before," he admits, and I condemn myself for finding his uncertainty endearing.

The gentleness in my words surprises even me. "I won't hurt you, I promise. I know it isn't the first instinct you'd have, but just trust me on this."

I cringe inwardly after the words leave my mouth. Crap, what the fuck is wrong with me? I'm not a bloody sappy sod! Potter hesitates a second more, but my tone seemed to have been the clincher for him, because then he's twisting underneath me to rest on his stomach.

"I assume you don't have any lube," I say, and a smirk tugs on the corner of my mouth as I hear Potter reply, voice muffled by the pillows, "Lube?"

"Not to worry, at least one of us is experienced here." I reach over the side of the bed and feel for the lube I have in my robes but find my wand sticking out from its pocket instead. Grasping it, I murmer, " _Accio_ lube." And then there's a small vial in my hand. Releasing my wand, I straighten up onto the bed again. I grin in victory to myself, because  _gods,_ I was completely right when I adjudged Potter to have a nice arse. The pinkish flesh and slight curve is calling out to me enticingly, and I lick my lips. Showing uncharacteristic restraint, however, I lean over him and place my head next to his in the crook of his neck.

"You've got to trust me on this, Potter," I say again. "It won't hurt - at least this part won't. It'll be rather enjoyable, in fact."

Potter only nods, and I straighten up. Emptying a gracious amount from the vial onto my palm, I place it onto the dresser and slick my fingers together. Then I part his legs slightly, giving me better access. Reaching between his arsecheeks, I finger Potter's rim very slowly and he clenches beneath me.

"Shush," I say. "Just relax, would you?"

Potter relaxes slightly and then I push a single finger inside. He lets loose a muffled gasp, and then I'm pushing in a second finger as his muscles clench and unclech around me. Twisting, I say, "Too much?"

But now Potter's in a world of his own because he's bucking upwards, trying to take in more. "Not... enough-" He gasps, and I'm pushing in a third slicked digit. I twist inside his heat, and he's pushing his face into the pillows, trying to muffle the sounds being ripped from his throat, while he pushes his arse further into the air. My other hand encircles my own cock and wanks slowly, slicking it with lube in the process. I'm fucking him with my fingers now, pushing and twisting and bending until he's incoherent below me.

Enough, I think, enough. I need him around me  _now,_ else my throbbing and aching cock is going to go mad with the pressure. I withdraw my fingers from him and am about to position myself to push in when I stop. For some inexplicable reason, this isn't it - this isn't how I want it to happen.

And then I know what's missing.

I place a slippery hand on Potter's shoulder and tug at it. He raises his head and props it on his palm, turning to look at me over his shoulder. "Why did you stop?" he asks.

"Because it's about to get better," I say, and tug at his shoulder again. "Face me."

Potter raises an eyebrow inquisitively just like he did at the Weasel in the bar, but complies nonetheless. I raise myself slightly so that he can position himself on his back. Potter's cock is fully erect once again, and I reach for his shins, encircling my waist with them. Leaning over him so that my weight now lies on my elbows and forearms at either side of his shoulder, I stop until I'm just a hair's breadth away from Potter's face.

"This is going to hurt," I say. "But if you follow what I say, it won't for too long."

"Okay," he whispers, and the trust I see in his eyes throws me.

I don't deserve it. Not from him, of all people.

But he's still giving it to me.

Something inside me snaps, and there's an avalanche of feelings flowing through my body. For a moment I'm swirling in a confusing tornado of  _everything_ , but then I'm pulling myself out to face the current situation with the help of an incredible amount of willpower and just a pinch of fright of facing whatever  _that_ was. Shutting out everything, I convince myself that I'll deal with it later - now is not the fucking time. I position my cock at his entrance, and his legs clench around my waist in anticipation.

Looking him straight in the eye the whole while, I push inside him.

His eyes clench in pain, and  _gods,_  his hole is so impossibly tight around me that I have to take several deep breaths to compose my cock not to give way. "Oh... _fuck,_ this...  _hurts_ -" He manages to say. In a fit of impulsivity, I bring a single hand up to cup his face and gently run my thumb over the side of it, feeling the stubble beneath it, whispering words of consolation. "It's okay, just relax, it'll get better."

He stops clenching every muscle in his body after a bit, and then I'm saying, "Fuck, Potter, I need to move  _now._ "

He nods in acquiescence once, burying his face into my neck to compose himself, and then I'm circling my hips slowly to make better passage. Potter gasps against my shoulder. I push more of myself in, and thrust very, very slowly, not wanting to hurt him. But after the first few times he's suddenly moaning wantonly, and cries, " _More..._ Deeper, for  _fuck's sake-_ " and he's bucking, raising his hips off the bed to take in more of me, and then I know it's finally okay with him because I start thrusting wildly, slamming into him and pulling out almost fully before continuing. We find a rhythm, and he meets me in my thrusts, pounding upwards as I do downwards.

"Oh  _fuck,_ this is so good..." Potter starts but cuts off because I've adjusted my thrusts, and suddenly I reach inside him to brush against his prostate. His words are replaced by something that is a sob and moan together and then he's saying, "There,  _there,_ that's where-"

Keeping my angle steady, I continue to pound into him to touch that same sweet spot and he's almost sobbing underneath me, moaning and gasping as his cock jerks wildly against my belly. And dear fucking Merlin above, this feels  _so_ fucking good, Potter hot and tight and clenching against me, my cock rubbing against each ridge and line of his hole as I move in and out, in and out, in and out-

I'm lost in a haze of lust, and I can feel the pressure building in my balls and the heat collecting at the base of my spine and I know I'm close,  _so_ close now, and I've never felt better, I've never felt this fucking good when I've been inside someone before. This is everything I've wanted, every wet dream come true and I don't want it to end so soon, but my climax is so close I don't think I can hold off anymore. It takes me a moment to realize that my own shuddering moans are swirling together with Potter's, his face still buried tight against my neck. His nails are digging into my back as he bites down on the sensitive flesh where my shoulder becomes my neck, and I howl out loud in a complete loss of control, my hands moving from their pincer-like grip from his thighs to clench at his arse. I dig my nails into the soft skin and scratch at the cheeks, so desperate for something,  _anything_ to anchor me to reality when I'm in such freefall.

One of Potter's hands releases my shoulder to reach between us, grasping his own leaking cock. He starts wanking frantically, back and forth, back and forth, and then twisting, and the sight is so fucking amazing that I'm transfixed as I pound into him in the same rhythm. I love the sight of him tossing off while I'm thrusting into him, and then he's gasping as I'm moaning, teeth still embedded painfully in my neck.

Potter releases my neck from between his teeth and pulls his head back, now looking me in the eye as we gasp and move together, so close yet so still so far. My skin is alight and tingling, cock impossibly hard and taut inside Potter. In a sudden burst of unspoken mutual consent that passes between our eyes, we both lunge forwards and claim each other's lips. Potter's letting loose a stream of muffled curses against my mouth as we kiss desperately, clumsily, lips and tongues and mouth all over but it doesn't matter because it's  _perfect,_ and I'm swallowing all his sounds, running my tongue over his teeth and upper palate, desperate to feel him  _everywhere,_ around me and in me and all over me. I'm drowning in the sensations enveloping my body, and Potter's responding like a man denied - through my haze of desire, I can't even make out where his mouth ends and mine begins. He's sucking my tongue into his mouth as he bites it, and then with a particularly deep thrust from me and squeezing twist from him and case of greedy mouths from both of us, he's coming with a loud cry, all over his hand and both our chests, spunk hitting every possible surface of our body and the sheets as his face contorts. I pull back from the kiss to watch him, and I'm transfixed in wonder at how  _amazing_ he looks as I watch his molten green eyes, spunk still splattering all over us. And then that's when I hear it.

" _Draco_..."

It's a shuddering gasp just at the end of his climax. My insides freeze up in terror, but I'm too far gone to stop outwardly, and I'm still pounding into him as I finally let loose so hard that everything literally goes black before I see stars, my head swimming, shouting out in pure pleasure for all the heavens and sundry to hear as I empty into Potter, my come spilling into and out of him, ruining the sheets.

I collapse onto him, releasing his arse as his legs unwind from their grip around my waist. We lay against each other for long moments, both trying to regain some semblance of proper breathing etiquette as his heart thumps loudly against my chest. Finally having the confidence that my arms and legs aren't as wobbly as jelly anymore, I roll off Potter's chest and lay onto his side, looking up at the drapes of the four-poster, still breathing rather heavily. Unsurprisingly, he's the first to talk.

"Wow... Malfoy, that was just... Fuck, that was amazing. Brilliant."

I sigh in exasperation. "Potter, please don't say anything and ruin it. Just shut up for two minutes."

He promptly heeds my comment, because the only sounds I hear now are our slowing breaths. The sweat and spunk is cooling and congealing around us, and I reach over the side of the bed for my wand again and murmer a quick  _Scourgify,_ and place it onto the dresser.

My post-orgasmic bliss has been cut across quite rudely by the single word I heard escaping from Potter's lips not moments ago. I'm supposed to be relaxing right now, but I can't stop thinking about it. It terrified me, the way he said it, completely open and giving and  _affectionate,_ and fuck, everything's ruined now, because of it. I know better than anyone not to give too much weight to things said during sex. But I've never heard Potter say my first name before, and the reason it affected me so much scares me even more - I  _liked_ it. I liked the way it fell from his lips, I liked the way it sounded coming from him, I liked how he said it, cutting and pulling at the right places even as he gasped it out, his accent such a different derivative from mine, yet even more beautiful all the same.

I  _liked_ it.

And then it's there again, the swirling and the thundering in my heart, and I'm terrified, so fucking scared, and I want to get up and run and leave stupid Potter and this buggered up situation behind me and just run and  _go_ and-

A soft snore interrupts my internal breakdown. I turn to see Potter sound asleep, curled slightly into himself, eyes shut peacefully. I look at him incredulously, wondering how he could just nod off like that while I'm falling to pieces. But that's only until I feel the sleep pricking at the back of my eyes too. Pulling the covers free from underneath him and myself, I cover both of us up before I can think twice about what I'm doing. There'll be time, I think, to work this all out later, but now I just want to sleep. Shifting so that I'm at an acceptable distance from Potter, I make myself comfortable under the sheets. Sleep is what I want. Sleep is what will make it better. It's flawed logic, but I don't care. Then I'm thinking of nothing else as I close out the world and my eyes drift shut, the sound of that single word still swimming in the recesses of my head.

"Draco, I think 'm gay."

But by the time Potter's mumbled, sleep-heavy confession reaches my ears, I'm already in the world of blackness and I don't hear it.

"G'night, then. Sleep well, Draco."

 

### Part IV

 

_"Draco!"_

_A woman is screaming, sobbing, her breath shuddering._

_"Draco, where are you?"_

_I spin around wildly, unable to see anything beyond the utter darkness around me. "Mother!" I yell, desperate. "I can't see you!"_

_"Draco, please, help!"_

_The complete defeat in her voice scares me beyond belief, and I start running blindly through the darkness, desperate to just get to her and save her. I feel the wind whizzing past my ears, but that is the only sign I have that I'm moving, that I'm gaining some traction on the ground, because everything around me is still dark. I can hear nothing but her sobs, wracking through her body. I try to make out where they're coming from, but I can't pinpoint the location; they seem to be reverberating all around me._

_"Mother!" I scream again, tears rolling down my cheeks, still running frantically. "I'm coming, Mother! I'm coming!"_

_But all the wind is let out of me as I collide headfirst with something hard, my face striking it forcefully. I fall backwards, vision blackening for a minute, eyes watering, something warm trickling down my nose. My head pounding painfully, I reach out, feeling cold stone beneath my palm._

_Suddenly, the silence pushes down upon me. I can't hear Mother sobbing anymore. I'm terrified._

_"Mother? Where are you? MUM!"_

_I reach out again, but now there's no obstacle anymore. I get back up, ignoring the throbbing, stinging pain in my nose and start running again._

_My stomach drops as my feet meet thin air, and then I'm falling, falling, falling fast, screaming out loud._

_I land heavily on my back, but the pain doesn't come. The first thing I notice is that it's not dark anymore - I'm lying in a barren landscape, stunted trees littered around. The sky is a dark whirlpool of pure terror, thundering and raging, its anger apparent._

_I sit up, suddenly realizing that my hands are outstretched above my head. I try to move them, but with a chill I realize they're caught there. I look up to see shackles around my wrists, their chains suspended in thin air. I pull against them, but they don't budge._

_And then I hear it. A bone-chilling, shrill, humourless trill of laughter._

_"No..." I whisper, terrified. "No, please, no-" My blood has run cold, and I'm shaking my head vehemently. I'm seventeen all over again, young and scared and alone. I pull at the shackles again, hard, my efforts in vain._

_The Dark Lord stands in front of me, robes billowing around his bare feet. I keep my eyes trained low, unable to look into those red, inhuman eyes. "I think you need to be shown just how displeased I am with you, Draco." I can hear the glee in his voice, and my insides churn._

_Without warning, a searing pain runs down my chest. I scream out in agony, blood spurting from my torso down to my legs. Struggling against the shackles is of no use; my wrists simply chaff and burn more._

_"Even the sound of your agony displeases me, boy. How unfortunate. So you see that I am suffering as well, with your punishment. How it pains me. But we must all make certain sacrifices, is it not?"_

_He cuts me open again, flicking his wand, but this time it's a slash across my face. I'm unable to stop sobbing, the warmth of the blood spreading across my cheek. "No..." I whisper again, my voice thick._

_He kneels down now, face to face with me. "Oh, but this is only the beginning." He smiles, face contorting into an expression that is hardly human. He extends one long-nailed finger and pushes it deep against the slash on my chest, twisting._

_My throat feels like it's tearing as I scream, the sound inhumane. The pain courses through me like no other, my chest on fire, burning and stinging so bad my vision turns black. Keeping his original hand steady, the Dark Lord now slowly pushes his wand into the gash across my cheek._

_The pain is so much that my throat convulses, closing up, choking me. I feel my consciousness slipping and I'm praying for it to just stop, to die, for it to go away, when I hear the voice._

_"Draco! Get away from him, you bastard!"_

_My mind snaps back to what's happening. I look up, but I can't see anyone._

_"Harry?" My voice trembles. But the Dark Lord is standing up, looking around uncertainly._

_"Malfoy! Draco, I'm coming!" There it is again._

_I pull against the shackles, and this time they wrench free. Without a second thought, I stumble up and start running blindly in the opposite direction from the Dark Lord, stumps whizzing past me, sky cracking ominously._

_"Malfoy! Malfoy!" He's calling me, where is he?_

_But I can feel something slithering behind me, and I turn just enough to see Nagini at my heels. My heart stutters in fright and I push on, running as fast as I can through the pain, feet catching on brambles._

_Harry's voice rings out again. "Malfoy? Malfoy!"_

_But I can't see him, fuck, where is he, why won't he come rescue me?_

_I can feel the snake snapping at my heels, and its fangs sink into my ankle as I stumble, falling, the pain blinding, Harry still calling out my name –_

–and I gasp as I open my eyes. The sound of Potter calling me in my dream becomes more pronounced rather than fading away, and it takes me a minute to realize I'm shaking violently. I require another moment to sort out, through the haze of my thoughts, that I'm not shaking  _only_ of my own accord - apart from my shivering, there's a blurry figure hunched over my face, hands on my bare shoulders, rattling me forcefully.

"Malfoy? Malfoy! Fucking hell, Malfoy, wake up!"

I blink more than a few times, my heart thumping insistently against my chest like some sort of tortured, locked beast trying to escape and burst out my ribcage. My breathing is fast, shallow and laboured, my hands twitching; there's a faint sheen of sweat covering my whole body. Potter's face finally comes into focus in the near-light. It's not an inch from mine, his eyes still bare, a look of mingled concern and apprehension on it.

"Are you alright? Christ, you scared the piss out of me."

He pauses, looking uncertain and unwilling to continue. "You looked like you were having a pretty awful nightmare. Woke me up yourself, thrashing about. You were all... twitching and moaning and sobbing and stuff, and, you know..." He breaks off awkwardly, waving a hand over my prone form, as if somehow that would better articulate what exactly I'm supposed to know. My body's still reacting like I've swum a mile in ice-cold water, though; the shivering hasn't stopped and neither has the breathlessness or erratic heartbeat.

But all those sensations take a back seat as I freeze internally at Potter's words.

Oh  _fuck._

Fuck, bugger, shite, bollocks, fuckity fuck fuck  _fuck._

Potter caught me having one of my nightmares. He caught me with my guard down, and I was fucking  _sobbing_ in my sleep, for fuck's sake.

And he saw it. He fucking saw  _all_ of it. Potter, the one person in the whole of my buggered up life that I'd have given even my Gringotts key over to make sure he  _never_  saw me this vulnerable,  _never._

Because, after all, the one time he did catch me with my guard down, admittedly unwittingly, he nuttered out enough to end with me nearly bleeding to death.

And I don't trust him not to take complete advantage of this situation as well.

Oh  _fuck!_

For a minute I don't know how to react, except to keep staring at the drapes of the four-poster above my head, frozen, my back ramrod straight against the mattress, hands balled into tight fists at my sides. My eyes, which had widened with Potter's words, don't seem to want to retract to their original size. My mind is suddenly empty, save for Potter's words bouncing around in my skull like some mocking imitation of an imprisoned bludger.

_Moaning and sobbing and stuff..._

Potter finally retracts himself from over my form, sitting back on his shins on his side of the bed. He looks at me uncomfortably, obviously at a loss as to how he should be reacting to a post-nightmare former arch enemy who he'd just slept with not hours ago. Apparently, he decides running a nervous hand through his hair seems like the best option.

I snap myself back into reality, wiping the slackness from my brain and tightness from my jaw. For a moment, I'm tempted to flee the scene as quickly as possible; what the fuck am I  _doing,_ anyway? I'm sleeping at  _Harry fucking Potter's_  house, having shagged him the night before, for sweet Merlin's sake! I should, by all rights, be scampering out the front door moments after it was over. And fucking Merlin, I'm  _this close_ to actually to doing it, to bolting out like a stampeding hippogriff.

I slow my breathing before turning to look at Potter. My gut is still roiling in fear and simulated pain; the remnants of the vivid sensations from my dream. Belatedly, I realize that we're both still completely starkers; although, while I'm still protected by the covers, Potter's side is pulled down while he sits there awkwardly in all his naked glory, seemingly oblivious to his state.

And that's when the determination overcomes my interior, and stays there.

No, I think firmly. Fuck what I'm supposed to be doing; this situation is so outside my frame of reference that it won't matter anyway. I'm  _not_ going to flee with my tail between my legs like some pathetic Crup; I'm  _not_ going to give in and toss over another opportunity for Potter to  _mock_ me at his next red-haired get-together. I'm not going to make a big deal of this - at the least not in front of him.

I won't give him the power - I'm not intent on staying a moment longer than I have to, but I'd rather make my way out in a more dignified manner, albeit later. But definitely not in front of him  _like this,_ letting my fear out through all the cracks in my psyche I've so carefully patched over in the bygone tedious years.

"I'm fine, Potter, it was nothing. Go back to sleep." I try to sound dismissive, but my voice sounds hollow to my own ears. I turn away from him and onto my side, facing the wall with the window, pulling the covers up to my shoulder from where they had pooled at my waist. Grabbing my wand from the dresser, I cast a  _Tempus_ that tells me it is twelve past four. Now that my body has regained some control over its pace, I feel uncomfortable sleep pricking at my eyes again, and if I were honest with myself, I'd like nothing more than to just drift off again. At the same time, though, I find myself silently hoping that Potter takes heed of my comment and  _does_ go back to sleep himself anyway so that I can make my escape without the drama.

But then a warm, uncertain hand places itself lightly between my shoulder blades and I flinch away instinctively.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I snarl, snapping around to face him, half sitting up and holding my body defensively, on impulse. "Don't fucking  _touch_ me."

Potter, who's still sitting back on his shins, recoils as if I've physically slapped him. The expression of hurt is quickly replaced by fierce anger.

"Oh, that's rich, Malfoy, coming from someone who couldn't keep his hands off me only a couple of hours ago." He growls back.

"Fuck  _off,_ Potter, don't flatter yourself. That was a fucking lay, it didn't mean anything. A bloke has needs, and I wasn't feeling picky about who I got off with at that moment."

I'm lying through my bloody teeth, and I know it. But this isn't right, Potter caught me with my defences down, and I'm dealing with it the only way I know - snapping them back up as fast as possible, heedless of who gets hurt in the process.

"You know what, Malfoy? You're just a fucking tosspot, an arrogant prick if I ever saw one, even after all these years." Potter's seething now, his nails digging deep into his palms. "You haven't changed one bloody bit, not in the least. I almost despise myself for believing you had."

"Oh boo hoo, poor Potter and his unrealistic expectations of the world. Come off it. It isn't all pygmy puffs and cheering charms out there, you know, and you're right - I haven't changed at  _all_ since Hogwarts. I never once gave you a reason to think otherwise, so it's your own fucking fault you had to go and disillusion yourself by believing everything's all fine and dandy, that every surviving Death Eater's a reformed angel and epitome of fucking second chances."

Potter's face is a constant swirl of emotions, flitting by so quickly I can't single each one out. We're both facing each other properly now, sitting up, his hands drawn across his chest violently, my hands balled into fists at my side. I'm feeling horribly vulnerable and  _naked_ having this row with Potter without my clothes, and I'm desperately wishing I was dressed, enough to make me want to get off the bed and grab my stuff. But I don't want to be the first one to give in.

There's a beat of silence wherein Potter appears as if he doesn't know how to react, still simultaneously recoiling and seething from the force of my words.

Then, "Yeah, you're right - as much as I hate to agree with you, some people are simply incorrigible, and you're one of them. Fucking stuck-up arsehole. Is that the reason you don't have any friends anymore? Couldn't keep up with your constant tantrums?" The sneer looks foreign on his face. "Everyone at the whole sodding Ministry knows about poor, pathetic, abandoned Malfoy. There are some right gossips around, you know. Your mates all abandoned you soon as they could, didn't they?" Potter's obviously lashing out due to hurt; a defence mechanism I'd know anywhere - I use it myself. But it doesn't make it sting any less. And quite frankly, at the moment, I couldn't give a flying fuck about the whys behind his whats.

"You keep your trap shut about them, Potter." My voice has gone dangerously low. "You don't know a fuck about what you're saying."

Potter has a malicious look in his eye, and he latches on to the topic, knowing he's got me now.

"Yeah, Goyle couldn't wait to get away, could he? Finally did tire out of being your sidekick, bending to your every whim. And Parkinson probably realized just how much of a ponce you were and left you to rot too, going after a fucking  _real_ man. I feel sorry for Zabini and Nott, though; poor sods couldn't wheedle their way out of your company. Heard Nott say some pretty nasty stuff about you the other day at the Ministry - looks like there's some stuff even Unspeakables can't keep in." He laughs humourlessly.

My vision goes white. Shocked would be an understatement for how I'm feeling right now. My ears are ringing, blood rushing and pounding through my veins. I've never,  _never_ seen Potter act this way before, to lose that entire Holier-Than-Thou charade that he keeps going. A split second later, he seems to realize the same thing; his expression goes slack and eyes widen perceptibly. In some bizarre, overlooked part of my brain, I register feeling triumphant over the fact that I'm the one person who manages to rile Potter up like no other, to reduce him to that level that he tries so desperately to appear above.

But it's too late; he's crossed the line and gone way too far, attacking the one thing that he should've just shut up about. He fucking has it coming now.

"Fuck, Potter, I'm impressed. I didn't know you had it in you. Finally given up pretending that you're above hurtling insults, did you?" I give him an expression of mock amusement. "Unfortunately for you, though, you've just gone and needled the best fucking player there is, and I'm feeling particularly on form today. You've had your little experiment now, haven't you? So you can fuck off to whatever it is you were doing before. Luckily, it doesn't matter if you prefer blokes or bints; I'm sure your little inbred clan of gingers are so desperate to get you into the family - only for your money and fame, though, I'm sure, considering how pathetically poor they are - that they'll allow you to fuck any of them, Weaslette or Weasel. Maybe you could have a go with Granger, too, if you get bored with Ginevra. A big happy family all around, you all share everything anyway, don't you?"

"You utter fucking bastard…!"

A savage pleasure runs through my veins at seeing Potter's green eyes flame with pure, undiluted hatred. He rises to the bait, hand twitching as he raises it almost imperceptibly, and I ready myself for the blow; I'm almost eagerly anticipating it, I want  _so_ fucking much to throw punches right now.

But then, suddenly, the hand goes limp. "Get out," he snarls, voice low. "Get the fuck out. Why're you still here, anyway? Get the hell out of my goddamn house."

That's it,  _enough -_ I don't have a reason to stay any longer. I snap myself off the bed, grabbing my wand from the dresser. "Yeah, I was beginning to wonder that myself." I start gathering my strewn clothes, pulling up my boxers and then my trousers, shoving my wand in my pocket. I fumble with the buttons, my hands shaking with barely concealed rage. "I'll get out of your way. Thankyou for your  _hospitality,_ Potter, but as you so very rightly put it, I have no need to be here anymore. Places to see, people to fuck, and all that."

Fucking  _hell,_ why won't my hands stop shaking so that I can just get my fly done and  _leave_? After a moment, my mind tells me to give up, reasoning that my robes would cover it anyway. I'm about to stop fiddling with it and find my shirt, but then I hear Potter.

"Malfoy." His voice sounds odd.

I don't deign to look up, giving my undone buttons a last shaking flick before finally admitting defeat. Had I raised my gaze, though, I would've seen Potter squinting at me, stumbling off the bed and pulling on his boxers; and been able to move away from his advancing (and still mostly naked) form. But I don't register that he's gotten off the bed and is standing right in front of me until his palm lays itself flat on my chest.

I jump backwards. "What the fuck?" I yell, looking up at Potter. "Get the fuck away from me!"

But Potter's squinting at my chest, eyes narrowed, trying to focus despite the absence of his glasses. "No, it can't be..." He mumbles, and then his eyes widen as he's staring at my chest in shock, and once again he's close, so close. That disconcerting green gaze is looking into me again as it flicks to my face before going back to my torso. I try to push his hand away from my chest, stumbling behind, but he doesn't budge, moving forwards as I do backwards until I trap myself between him and the wall again.

His gaze flicks from my bare chest to my eyes again, staying there, and the shock is replaced by horror and shame.

"I did this to you," he says simply.

I'm still struggling to get his bloody hand off my chest when I reply, "The fuck are you talking about, Potter? Get your fucking hand off me!"

"I did this to you." He repeats, and this time it's barely a whisper. His eyes are now trained on my chest.

" _What_ the hell are you on about? You..."

But my voice breaks as I look down at my chest properly, and my blood runs cold. Potter's eyes are running over a set of three pale scars, travelling across my body from my right collarbone to my left hipbone. They're glinting a faint silver in the not-light, raised in slight relief against the contours of my torso.

Oh  _fuck._

My Glamour Charm must have faded while I slept. I usually cast it before any night of a potential lay, covering the ugly scars as well as the Dark Mark that mar my body. All of the lines, the self-inflicted and the others - epecially this one; the one that I'd gotten so many years ago at the hands of the very person standing in front of me. I never want to scare off my partners when I undress, and despite the fact that they may know who I am, it's always less disconcerting for them to not have the sight of a skull spitting out a snake shoved in their face. Once the Dark Lord had fallen, the magic of the marks faded enough for them to be susceptible to Glamours. But I've never stayed over for this long at any bloke's place, and now I'm paying the price.

My voice seems to have fled me as I stare down at my own torso. I'm choking on my words, unable to speak as my attempts to push Potter's hand off turn feeble, at best.

Potter brings his fingers up to the start of the centre scar, trailing the path across my body. My hands are shaking again, palms now flat against the wall at my back, nails digging into the wallpaper.

"I did this to you," he says for the third time. He's still whispering, a gentle voice one would use when handling someone fragile. His eyes finally rise to look into mine again. They're bright, so bright, and they look like they're hiding behind a faint sheen of moisture. But he blinks, and it's gone. I'm still shaking, frozen as I look back into that transfixing green gaze. It turns shameful, remorseful, self-loathing. "Fuck, Malfoy, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so, sorry, I didn't realize it'd still leave so many scars. I was such a bastard..."

But I'm hardly listening to what Potter's saying, because sudddenly there's a ringing in my ears. I'm staring straight ahead, beyond Potter's shoulder. My hands are pressed painfully into the wall behind me and I'm sure if I look, my knuckles would be a shade closer to white than usual. I'm trembling pathetically, and I don't know when I began breathing so heavily, but Potter's fingers are still trailing the scar and his caress is so gentle and apologetic. He's still speaking, and I shut my eyes tightly, wondering why my limbs feel like they've been turned to stone and why I can't seem to push him away.

"... never meant to do that, I'm so sorry. I know it's asking for a lot so I don't expect you to forgive me, but I hope you know how sorry I am. There's not a day when I think about what happened that I don't regret it, Draco."

My eyes snap open at that word again, and I look at Potter as he beseeches me with his eyes, palm now flat against my chest again, thumb running almost absentmindedly across it.

Draco.  _Draco._

His voice saying my name from last night with the exact same inflections returns to my mind, and then I'm falling fast into a swirl of blackness, terrified and alone. Potter's voice saying my name rattles around and around in my head until the volume reaches almost a fever pitch. I shut my eyes against everything again, and suddenly there's a constant frame of mental images snapping through my brain; Potter grinning at me in the sitting room, Potter attacking me with his lips, Potter's face after I snogged him, Potter's intense green gaze, Potter caressing my hair as he looked at me  _like that,_ Potter as he writhed and wriggled beneath me with wonder in his eyes, Potter's face as he came, Potter's face as he said my name.

The swirling and thundering is back in my heart as the relentless images burst through my mind, that singular word still yelling inside my head. But this time it _aches,_ and fuck, this is so different from anything I've felt before. It's a terrible ache, hurtful yet so beautiful, and it's ripping my heart to shreds from within as it screams out in blissful agony; it's too much and not enough at the same time, and my insides cry in abandon but whether it's a plea of pleasure or pain, I can't make out. It's the most beautiful hurt that I've ever felt and it's addictive. The images swirl faster, the ache becomes more terrifying and then suddenly the word is just a whisper in my head.

_Draco._

Suddenly, it's too much for me to take, and I yell out loud as I clamp my hands to my ears as if that might somehow stop everything. Potter's hand retracts itself from my chest in a sudden, startled movement.

"Draco?" His voice sounds scared.

I snap my eyes open again, but everything's spinning in front of me, Potter's frightened face included. "Don't call me that, don't fucking call me that! Don't say that word!"

"What word? Draco?" He's looking at me, utterly bewildered. "Alright fine, if it troubles you so much, I won't call you Draco..."

"NO!" I scream, clamping my hands down on my ears even more.

No, no, no,  _no_.

I need to get away from him  _now._

I need to escape, I need move away _,_ but he's still standing in my way, blocking my path to the door, my back against the wall. My eyes dart all over, looking for the smallest place to slip out from, but the spinning is simply too much. I realize there's a door to my immediate right, and I stumble away from Potter, terrified, snap open the door, hurtle inside and slam it shut behind me. I grasp my wand from my pocket with trembling fingers and cast a locking charm just seconds before the jamb starts rattling with the force of Potter trying to open it.

"Malfoy? Fuck, Malfoy, what's wrong? Open the door!"

The doorknob rattles even more insistently, and Potter's muffled voice comes through, first pleading, then demanding that I let him through.

"Malfoy, for fuck's sake, open the goddamn door! I'm not going to fucking hurt you!"

Hand still clutching my wand, I walk backwards from the door, realizing that I'm in his bathroom. I try to take several deep breaths to compose myself. But it doesn't make a difference, I can't calm myself down and I'm so scared because the ache is still there and it just  _won't go away._  I stumble backwards until my back hits a glass barrier, and I realize the shower cubicle is right behind me.

A familiar sensation starts creeping over me and my insides freeze in terror.

My breath catches in my mouth and my skin starts crawling. I catch a familiar whiff of that stench, that smell that haunts me in my most broken state.

 _No._ This can't be happening now. Not now, not here, not like this. But even my most vehement pleas don't stop the sound of my mother from my dream returning to ring in my head.

_"Draco, where are you? Help me, Draco!"_

I scream out loud in desperation, ripping my clothes off my body, desperate to wipe the stink off my skin. I tumble into the shower, flipping on the water and turn it as hot as possible. I'm sobbing now, incoherent, as the burning water cascades down my body, scalding my skin.

The rattling of the doorknob stops as Potter hears the sound of the shower.

"Malfoy? Was that you yelling? What the fuck are you doing?  _Fuck_ , where the  _hell_ is my wand..."

Hurried footsteps recede from the door. But I don't care; I'm scouring my skin with my own nails, leaving red torn trails in their wake.

"No… No, no, I'm so sorry,  _no_ …" I'm mumbling and stuttering, I don't even know what for.

I turn my left arm over and am scrubbing at it with my nails when I see it again - the Mark standing out clearly against my pale skin. Even though the colour had faded, my complexion is such that it makes it look just as dark in comparison. A wave of pure hatred and nausea takes over my senses, and I howl as I dig my nails into the black lines, tearing flesh due to the sheer desperation of my actions. I scratch at it, desperate to wipe it clean, to make it go away so that I don't have to live with it anymore, reminding me everyday about the choices I made and where it got me - with no one to lean on, desperate and alone and forgotten, a shell that feels so hollow all the time.

Why won't the stench go away? It's choking me, I can hardly breathe; my vision is turning black. There are deep red swirling trails in the clear water circling down the drain but I'm still at it, scratching and scrabbling and sobbing and choking. The scalding water burns the raw scratches even more, heightening the hurt to this point where it's all just a frenzy in my head. The smell of guilt; it's squeezing my soul, sapping the life out of me, and all I can think of is no, no, no, _no –_

" _ALOHOMORA!_ "

The door bursts open with the loud boom of that voice and Potter tumbles in, still clad in only his boxers, but wearing his glasses now. He takes one look at my state and lets out a shout of protest as he hurtles towards the shower, whipping open the door and turning off the spray of water.

"Malfoy!Oh  _fuck,_ what the hell do you think you're doing…?"

He reaches out for me, but I turn towards him and step out of the shower. "Don't c-come near-r me, Potter, I'm w-warning you." I say, my hands outstretched to keep him at bay. My voice is trembling, my hands twitching. I vaguely register that my arms are still bleeding.

Potter holds his arms up in a gesture of surrender, but he still inches towards me. "Malfoy, please, I'm not going to hurt you. Just let me take a look at you, I can stop the bleeding."

"N-no. Just s-stay the fuck away." I pull my boxers lying on the floor up my sopping legs, uncaring about the water and just wanting to be clothed.

"Could you at least allow me to heal those cuts? That's all I'll do. Nothing else."

"I don't  _want_  you to h-heal them."

" _Please,_  Malfoy. You're still bleeding."

I look at Potter, his face earnest, tone pleading. I will never know what prompted my next move, but suddenly I feel all the fight go out of me, and then I'm slumping against the wall as the pain and burning returns in full force. I nod jerkily in acquiescence once, and Potter approaches me tentatively.

"Can I touch you? I need to hold your arms to heal them."

I nod again, stretching out my right arm. Potter grasps my wrist gently with his left hand and starts slowly running his wand over the grazes, murmuring an incantation that I don't recognize under his breath. I watch as the blood trickling out returns to them as if being sucked back and the epidermis slowly forms thin layer after layer of skin above the hurt areas. Soon enough, all the cuts are healed, and Potter reaches out for my left arm. I hesitate for only a minute, before I offer it, palm facing upwards.

Potter's hand stills for a minute as his eyes rake over the shorn lines of the Dark Mark. His eyes rise to mine, and I give him a defiant glare, challenging him to say anything about it. He merely gives an imperceptible shake of his head and reaches out, healing the grazes again. He doesn't stop when he reaches the skin of the Mark, only runs his wand over it like it were any other cut. It takes a few more chants of the spell and comparatively more time to heal, but it does as well.

I watch Potter as he goes about murmuring, his brow furrowed in concentration. His actions are precise, orderly and calm, and I feel myself getting comforted by them. My heart rate has slowed down now and I'm feeling much calmer with his ministrations. There is something soothing about the calculated, controlled and specific actions of his healing, a consolation in the predictability of the movements. Since I was a child, I've always been able to find comfort in patterns, and now was no different.

Potter finishes the last of the cuts, and then, after a beat of hesitation in which his eyes flick to mine, slowly runs a hand over the Dark Mark. I let out a sound due to my sharp intake of breath but don't pull away, and look up at Potter, watching his face as he frowns at my arm, still smoothing the skin of the Mark. I almost expect him to make some sort of disparaging comment, but I'm surprised when none is forthcoming.

He looks up at me, expression unreadable. I reckon something in my noticeable calmer expression must have given him the go-ahead to speak, because then he's asking me a question softly.

"Why did you do that to yourself?"

I shutter my face immediately, and Potter seems to notice it. He looks faintly disappointed, but not surprised.

"I'm not talking about this, so please don't waste your time."

I'm surprised when Potter doesn't put up a fight. "Alright." He looks at my body once, still dripping water onto the tiles. "Would you allow me to cast a Drying Charm on you, at the least?"

Without waiting for an answer, he casts it anyway. I don't realize his hand was still gripping my wrist until he lets go and steps backwards. Looking at me once, he steps to the door and says, "I'm going to allow you to dress now, okay?" His tone of voice is firm, and merits no disagreement. "And then I'm going to make a cup of tea for us both. Stay, drink, and then leave, if you want." Once again, he doesn't wait for me to answer before he shuts the door.

I stand there, dumbstruck for a few minutes before I remember myself. What the hell was that all about? He probably thinks I'm a nutter or I'm mental or something, treating me as if I'm a child. I'm resolutely ignoring the rather large part of me that was comforted by his actions, his touches, his offer; the part that could actually do with a sodding cup of tea right now. After a few moments of staying in the same position, I finally move and pull on my trousers (I'm able to do up my buttons this time, thankfully) and stuff my wand back into it. I take a deep breath and step out the door, but Potter's not in the room anymore. Locating my shirt and robes, I don them and hesitantly make my way down the stairs.

I step into the sitting room, looking through the doorway that connects it to the kitchen. I see Potter standing there through the opening. His back is towards me and he's humming tunelessly as he goes about making the tea. He's worn a thin t-shirt over his boxers now, and he's nattering about, looking as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

I stand there for a few moments, watching Potter, allowing the calm to flood me. He looks at peace, at home, and my heart twitches with  _something._  I watch his movements, seeming haphazard but finally understanding the rhythm and pattern behind them as he continues. I don't know how long I stand there, but suddenly I feel a weariness overtake me.

Without another word and with one last glance at Potter, I soundlessly make my way to the front door, open it and step out into the night, Disapparating on the spot.

 

***

 

I don't even know where I was thinking of when I Disapparated, but looking around, I find myself in a deserted alleyway near Vauxhall Station. I take off my robes and Transfigure it into a scarf, winding it around my neck so that I don't attract any unwanted attention from the Muggles due to my unusual attire. Making a split-second decision, I head towards the Thames.

I make my way onto the Albert Embankment, walking along it towards Lambeth Road. I stop at one point and lean against the wall of the embankment, staring out at the waves of the Thames. It's rather still tonight, not as choppy as usual. There's a faint mist that has settled on the water, the lights from the other side of the bank glowing fuzzily through the haze. I shiver in the cold, and belatedly realize that I've left my coat in the Spitting Horntail in my eagerness to leave with Potter. No matter, I think. I'll drop in tomorrow and retrieve it, I'm sure Oliver had noticed and kept it away safely. But the cold is biting into me. I consider Transfiguring my robes-scarf into a coat, but deem it too risky, even at this hour of the morning. Looking around to make sure the few early morning stragglers aren't watching, I cast a surreptitious Warming Charm with my hand grasping my wand stuffed in my pocket. The warmth envelops me, providing some relief.

I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. I remember, when I was barely eight, Mother would make trips from the Manor to Diagon Alley to shop, taking me along. I'd accompany her eagerly, wide-eyed and full of wonder at the shimmering displays in the shops around as well as the salespeople hawking their wares. I'd stop outside Quality Quidditch Supplies, nose pressed up eagerly against the glass. I'd run eagerly into Flourish and Blotts, thumbing through the tomes; my father's vast library has ingrained into me a love of books from a very young age, something only my family and closest friends knew about. And at the Apothecary, my favourite place, I'd go through all the ingredients and potions, full of awe. After, Mother would take me to Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlour, and she'd allow me to have one large scoop of whichever flavour I wanted. She'd watch me eat and slurp messily, a twinkle of love in her eye, and sneak a spoon or two when I wasn't looking just to tease me.

I also remember the day she suddenly decided to take me to Muggle London. I was only thirteen, home for the Christmas hols. After our round of Christmas shopping in Diagon, she turned around and told me we were going to the Muggle side of London, just to look around. I gaped at her, wondering how a pureblood would even know their way around the place, when she told me with a mischievous smile about how, when she was at Hogwarts, her friend Louisa and her mum had taken her to that side of the city, unbeknownst to Mother's family. She said it was a sight I had to see once.

I discovered something new about my mother that day - underneath the cold, pureblood, stately woman-of-society exterior that she always kept up, there was a person who enjoyed seeing the side of things that remained hidden, the side of things she had been brought up taught to hate. It was a something about her I doubt anyone apart from me knew about, Father included. He'd have probably thrown a fit anyway, had he known.

We walked down the bank of Thames, watching the strange things in the river (Mother told me they were called barges), the Muggles going about their Christmas shopping as well. The ducks squawked at us, and Mother merrily tossed them a few crumbs of bread from the edge of the sandwich I was eating while I scowled indignantly at her. We looked at the spires of the Parliament, while she chattered on about some inane Muggle thing, reminding me horribly of Arthur Weasley. When I turned to look at her, blank and disbelieving, she merely laughed, winking and telling me there was a lot I still didn't know about her, and I found myself smiling too.

I remember her tinkling laugh, the open and unguarded smile I'd only ever seen her give me. The sound rings through my head, and I shudder involuntarily, a wave of nostalgic sorrow overtaking me. I miss her so much; sometimes it's too hard to bear. I still feel horribly responsible for her death. If only I was just  _here,_ in England, instead of way over in some underbelly of France, getting completely pissed and tending to my own carnal needs, I'd have gone with her, been there to stop it, saved her;  _anything._

Because I know that's what I'm truly sorry about, the fact that keeps me up at night, the thing that haunts my nightmares, the reason my guilt chokes me.

I pull out my left arm in front of me, trailing my eyes over the now invisible cuts and the faded tattoo. I lost my head enough over it today to have a full-blown mental breakdown in Potter's house, of all people. I feel completely knackered, all of a sudden, and terribly old, aged beyond my years. I regret the mess I'd gotten myself into, the choices that passed me by. I regret that I wasn't brave enough to grasp them. I regret it all.

And the scars they've left hurt, all of them, both the physical and the invisible. I feel broken, shattered apart at the seams, my attempts to put myself back together feeble and trembling. The only time I've felt  _calm_ , honestly soothed and still in a very long time was today, in Potter's bathroom as he healed my cuts. Just like that, my thoughts drift back to him, and I find myself thinking of the way he gently grasped my arms, movements firm but sure. The way his skin felt against mine, solid and tangible.

It's predictable that he'd be the one to heal my scars, some sort of fucking poetic justice that he'd come prancing in and be the one to put me at peace.  _He_ wasn't the one who had to play host to the Dark Lord, he doesn't know what horrors I've had to face. Whatever scars he got in the War were superficial, at best, and faded away completely after it. The less jaded and biased part of me points out that this is probably an unfair judgement, but I don't really want to listen to it.

As if to prove its point, a vision of Potter's bare room jumps unbidden into my mind. I let out a sharp breath as I wonder, once again, what the story behind it was.

It's there, a niggling realization, trying to push up from my subconscious. But it's not ready yet, it only reveals one thing to me.

That we were  _all_  scarred, in more ways then one; some directly by the War, others by consequences of it. And not all our scars jut out in relief on our body - most of them play on our mind, our relationships, our surroundings. But they're all there, on each one of us. And we deal with it in different ways, the only ways we know how - Potter included.

Suddenly, my numb existence seems superficial, shallow, insincere; a cover I forced myself to believe to polish over all the feelings that were still very much alive. I wonder how long I've been trying to convince myself otherwise. After last night, I don't seem to be able to, anymore.

We're all marked. Potter and me probably more than the others.

Is that why I've always been drawn to him? The hate that I know I felt, the lust that I know accompanied it, later. Regardless of whatever my sentiments have been towards him, I've never ever been able to simply ignore Potter, to let him pass me by. I've always grappled for his attention, in whatever way he deemed fit to give me. I've always wanted him to see me, to notice me.

And later, I almost hoped he'd understand me, in some twisted, fucked-up way.

And then there it is, the realization in full force, hitting me like a broomstick upside my head.

Maybe one night with Potter was  _exactly_  what I needed to go on the so-called 'fucking soul-searching trip'.

A sudden wave of shame hits me as I think of how I lashed out at him when he was simply trying to comfort me after my dream. I feel gutted, wanting to take back the acid I spewed from my tongue. The way I pushed away the one person who showed any interest in my demons in such a long time.

Suddenly, I feel more alone than before.

I lean back from the embankment. The fog has lessened now, enough to faintly make out the spires of Whitehall. I don't know how long I've stood here, and the Warming Charm is starting to wear off. I make to walk towards Waterloo Bridge, even though it's a way off. I feel the urge to walk around a bit, clear my head. Maybe I'll make my way over to the other side, to Victoria Embankment too; I'm not ready to Apparate back to Wiltshire yet. I'm thinking it's a good idea anyway; I need to move before my legs freeze off my body, when a familiar voice breaks through from behind me.

"It's awfully cold out to be taking such an early morning walk without a coat on, don't you think?"

I snap around so quickly my neck cricks. I see Potter standing there, hands pushed into the pockets of his coat, face flushed with the cold. His chin is pushed into his collar, hair flowing slowly in the gentle wind. His eyes are a bright green behind his smudged glasses, the reflection of the water catching in it at certain angles.

I rub my neck, turning around to face him. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't reply. I don't think I expected him to, anyway. Not to that question. I rephrase.

"How did you find me?" This time, he answers.

"Well, I don't mean to brag, but I'm not the youngest Head Auror in almost a century for nothing, you know." He grins, face breaking into that patented expression. My breath catches for a moment. He looks beautiful.

I turn back, facing the water again, shivering slightly against the cold. Potter joins me at my side, leaning against the embankment, looking out at the waves as well. I can't make out if I'm feeling annoyed or relieved that he followed me, and I don't know how I'm supposed to act now, so I avert my eyes. But Potter simply extends an arm, still looking forward, and I look down to see a second, unfamiliar coat hanging off it. I hesitate for only a minute before I accept it and put it on. The sudden warmth is gratifying, and I register vaguely that it probably has an in-built Warming Charm on it, in addition.

"Why did you leave so suddenly?" he asks, voice soft.

I let out a humourless bark of laughter. "Honestly? You're actually asking me that?"

He turns slightly now, eyes on me. I look at him out of the corner of my eye, registering the look of faint hurt on it.

"I thought you'd stay for tea, at the least. You looked like you could do with a cup, anyway."

I stay quiet, still looking forward. The silence stretches out, but it's toeing the line between highly awkward and not uncomfortable, not quite making up its mind which way it wants to go.

Then Potter breaks it, softly. "I'm not judging you about what you did, you know." His voice is tentative.

I stiffen. "I don't recall asking you if you did. And I thought I made it clear I didn't want to talk about this."

I make to walk away, but Potter's hand is on my arm in a moment, stilling me. I almost make to shove it off again, but then I stop myself, remembering what happened the last time.

Maybe I can allow it, just this once.

"Look, I don't really care what happened. If you want to keep it to yourself, it's alright, I honestly didn't expect any different. But I don't think I want to burn any more bridges, do you? Especially not one that's already so shaky to start with." He grins again, trying to inject some humour into the conversation.

"I wasn't aware we had anything remotely resembling a bridge between us."

"But we don't exactly hate each other anymore, do we?"

I hesitate for a moment, unsure as to what I should say to that - simply because I don't really know how I feel about Potter anymore.

"At least I haven't, not for a while now." He looks up at me, making proper eye contact, and my heart stutters in my chest. His hand is still on mine. "And I'm so sorry about the things I said, I didn't mean them, not one bit."

My face shutters impulsively, but Potter looks at me, determined.

"And why should I accept your apology?" I raise a cold eyebrow at him.

"Because you were just as much of an arsehole as me, and frankly said an even amount of stuff back." He smirks, but there's a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "I think you'll agree that we both bring out the worst in each other, whether on purpose or not."

I stay silent. I don't know what Potter sees in my face next, but he looks satisfied and his face relaxes, giving an almost imperceptible nod.

He flicks his eyes to me as he speaks. I register his hand still grasping my arm, grip gentle. "I meant it when I said I thought you'd changed."

I turn fully to look at him, incredulous. "Honestly, Potter, you're the most gullible twat around if that's what you truly believe. You don't even fucking  _know_  me, let alone have any right to pass judgements on whether I'm suddenly the embodiment of change for the good."

Potter sighs in exasperation and lets go of my arm. It feels cold.

"I didn't mean that. Call it intuition, call it wishful thinking, I don't really care. I just..." He breaks off, sighing again, carding a hand through his hair. He turns to look back at the water. "I don't even know what I meant myself."

I lean back onto the embankment, imitating his gaze.

There's silence again, but this time it's not as strange, it's more of a quiet, thoughtful sort. I feel Potter absentmindedly shift closer to me as a gust of harsh wind hits us, and I can feel the warmth radiating out from his body.

_I haven't, not for a while now._

Once again, my skull seems empty save for these words bouncing about in my head. How in the world does Potter expect me to react to that? It's always been a given, we're simply  _supposed_  to hate each other. That's what's expected of us.

 _Yeah, and that's exactly why you just had the most unbelievable sex with him last night, didn't you?_ A small voice in my head says.

And that ache. I think of the ache in my chest when he said my name. That beautiful, terrible, addicting ache. I sigh deeply.

Choices, I think. Choices that have passed me by. Choices that I regret being too scared to grasp on to.

I want to feel that ache again. But not scared, like I was before. I want to face it with courage, taking the risk; to actually  _feel_  it and see where it leads.

I take a deep breath, knowing my next question could change everything, depending on whether Potter understands what I mean by it or not. "What's the story behind the room?" I ask tentatively. "You can tell me."

Potter turns to look at me, a glint in his eye. I think he understands just as well as me the unspoken acquiescence behind my query.

"I think that's a conversation that merits a cuppa." He's speaking slowly, almost as if he's weighing each word before he says it. "The tea's getting cold back at home, you know."

He turns to look at me, hopeful. I turn as well. A faint gust of wind lifts my own fringe, and his hair flails wildly in it. I catch a whiff of that indescribable scent of his. It's a smell somewhere between the musk of spring rainfall and cool winter Quidditch pitches. I breathe in deeply.

The wind is changing. I can smell it, I can feel it in my bones.

He extends a hand towards me, palm faced upward.

I have a sudden case of déjà vu as I remember myself, over a decade ago, offering a hand to a boy with circular glasses and a lightening bolt scar.

Choices, I think. Some of them might have been made for me, like the one that day. But I have the power over the ones I make now - more so than ever before. Choices.

"So?" Potter asks, his hand still outstretched.

I close my eyes, and a vivid creation of Potter from my mind's own subconscious jumps out at me, one I didn't even know I still had stored away.

_You have a choice to make, Draco. You can't keep living like this._

I open my eyes to see the real Potter still standing in front of me, hand outstretched.

Yes, the wind is definitely changing. And maybe now I know what my own Harry meant when he said those two lines.

I extend my palm towards Potter, placing it on his warm, callused one. He grips it hard, corners of his mouth tugging upwards.

Choices. I'm making them. Not the one I'd have expected myself to, but contrary to my belief, it feels better than what I'd thought it would. I'm retreating once again, but this time it's from coldness and desolation to an unknown path I've never given a chance before, one I simply passed by. Or maybe it's not even a path; maybe I'm simply striding in the opposite direction now, the same road stretching out on either sides of me. But regardless of whether it's a fork in the road that I passed or just simply a decision to turn around and walk back, I'm returning to look at this choice now. It's glinting at me, a spark of hope there, and I feel brave enough for once in my life to walk down it. To see where it goes.

And as the real, solid, tangible Harry beams at me once again with those breathtaking eyes and Disapparates me into the night, I can't help but think that this time, maybe I won't choke on the dust of my retreat.

__

_fin._


End file.
